Jewish Women: Between Conformity and Agency (Routledge Jewish Studies Series) [1 ed.] 1032576790, 9781032576794

Table of contents :
Cover
Endorsement Page
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
List of Figures
Acknowledgments
Introduction: Anonymous Portraits
Chapter 1 Social Skin in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine
Chapter 2 Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz
Chapter 3 Sacred Space in Papal Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin
Chapter 4 Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film
Conclusion: Patriarchy and Feminism
Appendix: Filmography
Index

Citation preview

“This is a one-of-a-kind study of the lives, experience and self-determination of women as part of Jewish history. Combining her formidable expertise as an archaeologist with her singular ability to master other fields, Galor can move across time and space in a way that very few scholars can, and the result is a remarkable tableau—an account that comes as close as any book can to a three dimensional image of Jewish women at different periods of history. The book is also exceptional for the way it brings different subfields of Jewish history into a larger picture—very few recent books have accomplished this kind of intellectual integration with such depth and acuity.” Steve Weitzman, University of Pennsylvania, United States

“What a rich treasure! From historical traces, Jewish Women animates the stories of ordinary women who lived over the last two thousand years, offering insights into how they thought, acted, spoke, clothed and styled their bodies, bathed in ritual pools, worshipped, married, and divorced. Female agency, Galor makes evident, is nothing new; Jewish women have, for millennia, challenged patriarchal norms, shaping their own lives and history itself.” Karen Skinazi, Associate Professor of Literature and Culture, University of Bristol, United Kingdom



Jewish Women

Jewish Women: Between Conformity and Agency examines the concepts of gender and sexuality through the primary lens of visual and material culture from antiquity through to the present day. The backbone of this transhistorical and transcontextual study is the question of Jewish women’s agency in four different geographical, chronological, and methodological contexts, beginning with women’s dress codes in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine, continuing with rituals of purity in medieval Ashkenaz, worship in papal Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin, and ending with marriage and divorce in Israeli film. Each of these explorations is interested in creating a dialogue between the patriarchal legacy of the traditional texts and the chronologically corresponding visual and material culture. The author challenges traditional approaches to the study of Jewish culture by employing tools from art history, archaeology, and film and media studies. In each of these different contexts, there is ample evidence that women—despite persistent overall structural discrimination—have found ways to challenge male constructs of gender norms. Ultimately, these examples from past and present times highlight women’s eminence in shaping Jewish history and culture. Bringing a new interdisciplinary lens to the study of the history of gender and sexuality, the book will be of interest to students and researchers of Jewish history and culture, art history, archaeology, and film studies. Katharina Galor is the Hirschfeld Senior Lecturer in Judaic Studies at Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. Her recent publications include The Archaeology of Jerusalem: From the Origins to the Ottomans (2013); Finding Jerusalem: Archaeology between Science and Ideology (2017); and The Moral Triangle: Germans, Israelis, Palestinians (2020).

Routledge Jewish Studies Series Series Editor: Oliver Leaman, University of Kentucky

Jewish Studies, which are interpreted to cover the disciplines of history, sociology, anthropology, culture, politics, philosophy, theology, religion, as they relate to Jewish affairs. The remit includes texts which have as their primary focus issues, ideas, personalities and events of relevance to Jews, Jewish life and the concepts which have characterised Jewish culture both in the past and today. The series is interested in receiving appropriate scripts or proposals. Religious Studies and Rabbinics The Environment and Literature of Moral Dilemmas From Adam to Michael K David Aberbach Postmodern Love in the Contemporary Jewish Imagination Negotiating Spaces and Identities Efraim Sicher Early Israel Cultic Praxis, God, and the Sôd Hypothesis Alex Shalom Kohav Bialik, the Hebrew Bible and the Literature of Nationalism David Aberbach Contemporary Israeli Haredi Society Profiles, Trends, and Challenges Edited by Kimmy Caplan and Nissim Leon Jewish Hungarian Orthodoxy Piety and Zealotry Menachem Keren-Kratz Jewish Women Between Conformity and Agency Katharina Galor For more information about this series, please visit: https://www​.routledge​.com​/Routledge​-Jewish​-Studies​-Series​/book​-series​/JEWISH

Jewish Women

Between Conformity and Agency

Katharina Galor

First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Katharina Galor The right of Katharina Galor to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Galor, Katharina, author. Title: Jewish women : between conformity and agency / Katharina Galor. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2024. | Series: Routledge Jewish studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2023028548 (print) | LCCN 2023028549 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032576794 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032576800 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003440499 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Jewish women—History. | Jewish women—Social conditions. | Jewish women—Clothing—History | Jewish women—Religious life. Classification: LCC HQ1172 .G35 2024 (print) | LCC HQ1172 (ebook) | DDC 305.48/8924—dc23/eng/20231016 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023028548 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023028549 ISBN: 978-1-032-57679-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-57680-0 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-44049-9 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003440499 Typeset in Times New Roman by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

In memory of my aunt, Agnes Meisel

Contents

List of Figures x Acknowledgments xviii

Introduction: Anonymous Portraits

1

1 Social Skin in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine

23

2 Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz

86

3 Sacred Space in Papal Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin

147

4 Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film

213



273

Conclusion: Patriarchy and Feminism

Appendix: Filmography 279 Index 280



Figures

0.1 Items found near Babatha’s documents, Cave of Letters, second century CE, Nahal Hever, Israel. Photo by Moshe Ken. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. 0.2 Bruria (Hadar Galron) and her husband Yaakov (Baruch Brener) in Avraham Kushnir’s movie Bruria from 2008. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 0.3 The Purim triumph with Queen Esther, detail, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain. 1.1 Hall of Fountains, bathhouse at Hammath Gader, RomanByzantine period, Yarmouk River Valley, Israel. Photo by Avishai Teicher. Public Domain. 1.2 Statue of Aphrodite, Beth Shean, second century CE, Israel. Photo by Ardon Bar-Hama. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. 1.3 Aerial view showing part of the central nave mosaic floor of the Hammath Tiberas synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 1.4 Zodiac mosaic featuring Libra, Hammath Tiberias synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 1.5 Leda and the Swan sarcophagus, Beth Shearim, early third century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 1.6 Western wall of Dura Europos synagogue with torah niche. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain. 1.7 Pharaoh’s Daughter drawing Moses from the Nile, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain. 1.8 Dionysus Mosaic depicting scenes from the life of Dionysus in Roman villa triclinium, around 200 CE, Sepphoris, Israel. Courtesy of Livius. 1.9 Sacrifice of Isaac panel, Beit Alpha Synagogue mosaic, sixth century CE, Israel. Public Domain. 1.10 Two men wearing tunics with clavi, House of Orpheus, Sepphoris, fourth century CE, Israel. Photo by Carole Raddato. Public Domain.



2 3 3 27 28 29 29 30 31 31 32 36 37

Figures 

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1.11 Samson standing alongside several soldiers, Khirbet Wadi Hammam synagogue mosaic, late third/early fourth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gaby Laron. Courtesy of Uzi Leibner, The Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 38 1.12 Zodiac mosaic featuring Virgo, Hammath Tiberias synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 38 1.13 Zodiac mosaic featuring Virgo, Beit Alpha synagogue, sixth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 39 1.14 Zodiac mosaic featuring Spring, Hammath Tiberias synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 39 1.15 Three dancing, bare-breasted Amazons, Nile House mosaic, Sepphoris, fifth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gabi Laron. Courtesy of Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Excavations, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 40 1.16 Wedding of Dionysus with Ariadne, in villa triclinium, around 200 CE, Sepphoris, Israel. Photo by Omer Golan. Public Domain. 41 1.17 The Purim triumph with Queen Esther, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain. 42 1.18 Braids of hair, Northern Palace, Masada, 73 CE, Israel. Photo by Vladimir Naikhin. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. 44 1.19 Personification of Spring, Sepphoris synagogue mosaic, sixth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gabi Laron. Courtesy of Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Excavations, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 46 1.20 Personification of Summer, Hammath Tiberias synagogue mosaic, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 46 1.21 Personification of Winter, Sepphoris synagogue mosaic, sixth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gabi Laron. Courtesy of Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Excavations, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 47 1.22 Glass pendant decorated with a menorah, shofar, lulav, and etrog, Byzantine period, Jerusalem. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. 48 1.23 Personification of Autumn, Hammath Tiberias synagogue mosaic, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 49 1.24 King David playing the harp, synagogue of Gaza, sixth century CE. Photo by Avishai Teicher. Public Domain. 50 1.25 So-called Mona Lisa of the Galilee, Dionysus mosaic, third century CE, Israel. Photo by Carole Raddato. Public Domain. 51 1.26 King David anointed king by Samuel, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain. 59

xii Figures 1.27 Garment fragments with notched line pattern, Cave of Letters, second century CE, Israel, Yadin, The Finds from the Bar-Kokhba Period in the Cave of the Letters, Plate 67, 1963. Photo by David Harris. Courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem. 60 1.28 Garment fragment with notched gamma pattern, Cave of Letters, second century CE, Israel, Yadin, The Finds from the Bar-Kokhba Period in the Cave of the Letters, Plate 68, 1963. Photo by David Harris. Courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem. 61 2.1 Miqveh foundation plaque, 1185/86, Am Synagogenplatz 4, Worms, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 87 2.2 Jerusalem, Roman-period miqveh. Photo by Joe Goldberg. Public Domain. 91 2.3 Usha, Roman-period miqveh, Israel. Photo by Shual. Public Domain. 92 2.4 Jewish ritual baths in Germany from the Middle Ages until 1945. Drawn by Régis Péan after Keßler, “The Jewish Ritual Bath in Germany,” 54. 94 2.5 Plan of Speyer’s medieval Jewish Quarter, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 27. 96 2.6 Speyer’s synagogues with men’s synagogue (right) built in 1100 and women’s synagogue (left) built in 1354, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 96 2.7 Speyer miqveh, section and plan, c. 1110, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Heuberger, Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland, 28. 97 2.8 Biforium of Speyer miqveh, c. 1100, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 98 2.9 Speyer miqveh pool, c. 1100, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 98 2.10 Plan of Cologne’s medieval Jewish Quarter, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Heuberger, Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland, 26. 99 2.11 Cologne miqveh, plan and section, second half of twelfth century, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 35. 100 2.12 The restored women’s section of the Worms synagogue seen via the arch that connects it with the men’s section. Photo by Katharina Galor. 101 2.13 Worms miqveh plan and section, 1185/86, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 320. 102 2.14 Friedberg miqveh section and plan, 1260, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Kingreen, Das Judenbad und die Judengasse in Friedberg, 30. 103 2.15 Friedberg miqveh gothic entrance portal, 1260, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 104 2.16 Friedberg miqveh shaft with arched openings, 1260, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 105 2.17 Friedberg miqveh close-up of column capital, 1260, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 106

Figures  2.18 Friedberg church choir, thirteenth century, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 2.19 Erfurt miqveh with niche for lamp, view towards northeast, thirteenth century. Photo by Katharina Galor. 2.20 Plan of Strasbourg’s medieval Jewish Quarter, France. Drawn by Régis Péan after Waton, “Des bains juifs à Strasbourg,” 56. 2.21 Strasbourg miqveh plan, thirteenth century, France. Drawn by Régis Péan after Weyl and Weyl, “La fresque de la cour du bain des juifs,” 375. 2.22 Strasbourg miqveh shaft and pool, thirteenth century, France. Photo by Katharina Galor. 2.23 Area plan of medieval Sondershausen, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Nicol and Walter, “Ritualbades in Sondershausen,” 196. 2.24 Sondershausen miqveh plan, c. 1300, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Nicol and Walter, “Ritualbades in Sondershausen,” 199. 2.25 Sondershausen cellar miqveh, c. 1300, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 2.26 Bamberg miqveh plan, c. 1300, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 326. 2.27 Three women immersing vessels in a pool. Illuminated manuscript of a Hispano-Moresque Haggadah, c. 1300, Spain. British Library London, ms. Or. 2737, fol. 90r. Courtesy of the British Library London. 2.28 Miqveh Besalú, Spain, twelfth century. Photo by Arie Darzi. Public Domain. 2.29 Miqveh, Montpellier, France, thirteenth century. Photo by Bruno Barral. Public Domain. 2.30 Miqveh, Carpentras, France, fourteenth century. Photo by Marianne Casamance. Public Domain. 2.31 Weisenau cellar miqveh, c. 1760, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 2.32 Weisenau cellar miqveh, second half of nineteenth century, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor. 2.33 A woman immersing in a cellar miqveh while her husband waits for her to join him in bed. Miniature illuminated manuscript from Ashkenaz, 1427/28. Staats-und Universitätsbibliothek Hamburg cod. Hebr. 37, fol. 79v. Courtesy of the Universitätsbibliothek Hamburg. 3.1 Louis XV eighteenth-century cartouche above entrance of Cavaillon synagogue, France, reading “This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter through.” Photo by Katharina Galor. 3.2 Carrière of Cavaillon, view from synagogue towards south. Photo by Katharina Galor. 3.3 General plan and location of the second Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of Avignon, 1819 (section KK). Original scale 1/2500. Author of the original document: Guillon Père. Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-007/42.

xiii 106 107 108 108 109 110 110 111 112 113 115 116 116 117 118

120 148 151

152

xiv Figures 3.4 General plan and location of the Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of Carpentras, 1834 (section K). Original scale 1/1250. Author of the original document: Cournaud Auguste. Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-031/24. 3.5 General plan and location of the Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, 1791. Authors of the original document: Roselyne Anziani and Auguste Cournaud. Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-043/30. 3.6 General plan and location of the Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of Cavaillon, 1832 (section G1, plot 294). Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Copyright: Région ProvenceAlpes-Côte d’Azur - Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-035/28. 3.7 Cavaillon synagogue basement with remains of former women’s section including oven for baking bread and the traditional coudolles. Photo by Katharina Galor. 3.8 Herod’s Temple Mount compound, prior to 70 CE destruction. Holy Land Model, Israel Museum, Jerusalem. Photo by Berthold Werner. Public Domain. 3.9 Western Wall section of Herodian Temple Mount enclosure wall, Jerusalem. Photo by Gary Todd. Public Domain. 3.10 Aerial view of 2022 excavations exposing the foundations of the synagogue in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. Courtesy of the Ville de L’Islesur-la-Sorgue – Service Communication. 3.11 Avignon synagogue, built in 1848 in place of the former destroyed synagogues, France. Photo by Françoise Baussan. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Françoise Baussan. 3.12 Carpentras synagogue façade, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Katharina Galor. 3.13 Carpentras synagogue basement with remains of former women’s section, France. Photo by Katharina Galor. 3.14 Carpentras synagogue ground floor and first floor plans, eighteenth century. Drawn by Régis Péan. 3.15 The ark in the eastern wall of the Carpentras synagogue, as repaired and repainted in 1923, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel. 3.16 The bimah with canopy on the gallery in the western wall of the Carpentras synagogue, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Synagogue of Carpentras and of Frédéric Pauvarel.

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155 156 157 157 160

161 163 164 165

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167

Figures 

xv

3.17 Cavaillon synagogue with northern tower integrated into the eighteenth-century building, France. Photo by Katharina Galor. 169 3.18 Wooden panels of Cavaillon ark, recto (a) and verso (b) Judéo 34, sixteenth century, France. Courtesy of the Patrimoine et MuséesCavaillon and of Séverine Padiolleau. 170 3.19 Cavaillon synagogue ground floor (a) and first floor (b) plans, eighteenth century, France. Drawn by Régis Péan. 171 3.20 Cavaillon synagogue façade with lower and upper balconies, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Katharina Galor. 172 3.21 Gallery in the western wall of the Cavaillon synagogue, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel. 173 3.22 The ark in the eastern wall of the Cavaillon synagogue surrounded by wrought iron balustrade, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel. 174 3.23 Chair of Elijah, Cavaillon synagogue, 1774, France. Photo by Katharina Galor. 175 3.24 Northern cross section of Capernaum synagogue, Kohl and Watzinger, Antike Synagogen in Galilaea, Tafel IV, 1916. Public Domain. 177 3.25 Plan and section of the Herodian Temple, Jerusalem, featuring the Women’s Court. Drawing by Gal M. Public Domain. 179 3.26 Interior of the Portuguese Synagogue, Amsterdam in 1695 by Romeyn de Hoogh. Public Domain. 182 3.27 Women’s gallery, German synagogue, Venice, 1528. Photo by Markhole. Public Domain. 183 3.28 Carpentras synagogue with women’s sections in north wall, the gallery on top and the red arches, covered by mashrabiyas below nineteenth century, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel. 186 3.29 Avignon synagogue built in the neoclassical style, with lower men’s area and upper women’s gallery, nineteenth century, France. Photo by Françoise Baussan. Courtesy of the Région ProvenceAlpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Françoise Baussan. 187 3.30 Wedding ceremony next to the Altshul from Paul Christian Kirchner’s Jüdisches Ceremoniel, Nuremberg, 1724. Public Domain. 188 3.31 Mahzor, women’s prayer book written in 1471 by Abraham ben Mordecai Farissol, MS 8255, Fol. 5v°. Public Domain. 190 3.32 Certificate of accession to the religious majority for Noémie Lunel, Carpentras, 1865. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général, of the Synagogue of Carpentras, and of Frédéric Pauvarel. 191

xvi Figures 3.33 Portrait of French actress Mademoiselle Dubois as Zaïre, eighteenth century. Hand-colored lithograph. Public Domain. 3.34 Interior of the Comédie-Française in Paris as originally designed by Victor Louis in 1790. Drawn by Antoine Meunier. Lacroix, XVIIIème siècle, 431. Public Domain. 4.1 Kadosh. Meir’s father advises him that “a barren woman is no woman.” Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.2 Sallah Shabati. Sallah negotiates the price for his daughter Habbubah for her marriage with the Kibbutznik Sigi. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.3 Kazablan. Rachel appears behind window bars, looking at Kaza and his buddies. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.4 Kazablan. Rachel’s father and stepmother are looking down at Kaza, who is interested in Rachel. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.5 Lovesick on Nana Street. Victor is flirting with Michaela. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.6 Lovesick on Nana Street. Victor and Levana are lovers. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.7 Colombian Love. Omer and Oranit are getting married under a chuppah with a rabbi who is stoned. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.8 Tel Aviv Stories, Divorce. Tikva has taken a rabbi and others hostage to force her runaway husband to grant her a get. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.9 A Touch Away. Roha’le’s parents inform their daughter about a shidduch they arranged for her. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.10 A Touch Away. Zorik screams Roha’le’s name as she is getting married. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.11 Kadosh. A marriage, despite love and intimacy, is doomed to fail, showing Rifka and Meir. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.12 Kadosh. Malka and Yosef’s wedding. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.13 Lev Tahor. Chaiah enters as her mother, grandmother, and Susie are waiting for her to congratulate her on finding a good shidduch. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.14 The Wedding Plan. Michal is being told by her fiancé that he doesn’t love her. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.15 The Wedding Plan. Michal and her family and friends have doubts that a groom will show up at the scheduled wedding. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.16 Late Marriage. Zaza, drunk at his wedding, tells the guests, that there is a woman in his life who is “more beautiful than his wife.” Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.17 Fill the Void. Shira anticipates the intimate moments with her husband after the wedding. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.18 Fill the Void. Shira and her mother Rivka inspect her potential match at the supermarket. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

195 196 214 223 223 224 225 226 228 229 232 233 234 234 236 238 238 244 246 247

Figures  4.19 Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem. Viviane and Eliahou at the rabbinical court going through a divorce process. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.20 Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem. Viviane loosens her hair. Screengrab by Katharina Galor. 4.21 Unchained. Rabbi Yosef Morad assists a woman to get through the divorce procedure at the rabbinical court. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

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Acknowledgments

Despite my long-standing interest in gender, specifically through the lens of ancient visual and material culture, it is my recent scholarly interactions and collaborative efforts with friends and colleagues—especially anthropologists Nadje Al-Ali and Sa’ed Atshan, as well as sociologist Gökçe Yurdukal—that has deepened my interest in and broadened my perspective on gender, sexuality, and feminist research. Their friendship and scholarly work have transformed me as a person, especially in how I have brought my earlier work into dialogue with contemporary issues. During my fellowships at the Berliner Antike-Kolleg, the Selma Stern Center for Jewish Studies Berlin-Brandenburg, and the Einstein Center Chronoi between 2016–2018, I was able to devote myself to reading up in these fields with a specific focus on Judaism, beginning with my work in antiquity and late antiquity, slowly working my way through the Middle Ages, the Early Modern era, and leading into present times. I am especially grateful to Christina von Braun and Christopher Markschiess, who at the time provided me with the institutional and collegial support to lay and build on the foundations of this study in its early stage. Though mindful of the diverse approaches used by scholars of these distinct periods and the different geopolitical and cultural contexts I ultimately incorporated into my project, the general negligence of visual and material culture when studying Jewish women and gender more broadly (with the exception of the field of media and film studies), appeared to me a common gap. This general observation, which proved persistent, sparked my curiosity, and I launched the present project, which spans multiple time frames, places, and methodologies. I have learned much during the course of my field studies, research, and writing, but mostly I have realized that I have only scratched the surface of the complex task of discerning gender and religious affiliation primarily through iconographic, archaeological, and architectural data. The combination and integration of distinct temporal, geographical, and methodological frames I propose for Jewish Women: Between Conformity and Agency is thus novel—perhaps a first, modest attempt to engage gender, sexuality, and Judaism. Other than the institutional framework of the three fellowships I held in Berlin, which allowed me to spend much of my time reading and collecting relevant source materials, it was a grant from the Leo Baeck Foundation, administered by the Abraham Geiger Kolleg of the University of Potsdam in Berlin-Brandenburg, that enabled me to take a leave from Brown University and to devote an entire 

Acknowledgments  xix academic year (2020–2021) to the writing process. I am mostly grateful to Bettina Schwarz, who encouraged me to apply for the grant and provided useful guidance and support throughout the research and writing. I would also like to thank AnneMargarete Brenker, Chancellor of the Leo Baeck Foundation, for assistance with the logistics involved. Beyond the countless works by scholars of gender and sexuality that I have read and consulted for the areas I address in the present study, I am indebted to many individuals who have helped me during all phases of this undertaking. In preparation of my chapter on Jewish dress in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine I co-organized a conference on Gender and Social Norms in Ancient Israel, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity together with Michaela Bauks and Judith Hartenstein at the University of Koblenz-Landau in the spring of 2016. The generous support of the Fritz Thyssen Foundation made possible our meeting and publication of the proceedings. The conference itself, and the editorial process enabled me to absorb the numerous papers on questions of religion and gender, bringing text and material culture into dialogue. My paper on Jewish women’s attire in classical and late antiquity provided the basis for my chapter in this book.1 I am also grateful to my former graduate student, and now colleague, Gregg Gardner for his careful reading of my book chapter on social skin (codes of dress and undress) and his many useful comments. An additional critical eye on this chapter and much-appreciated remarks were provided by Michael Satlow. Regarding purity and ritual immersion practices in ancient and late antiquity, I am thankful to Hebrew University Talmud scholar Yaacov Sussman for guiding me in my early work on miqva’ot (plural of miqveh or Jewish ritual pool) in Israel/Palestine, specifically in Qumran and Sepphoris. Conversations with Talmud scholars Stuart Miller and Eyal Regev helped me to integrate exegetical work. My publications on Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine pools in Palestine informed much of my approach to medieval pools in Ashkenaz.2 I am grateful for Judith Bresinsky’s tireless efforts to help me navigate the complex administrative networks of medieval and modern ritual pools and other archaeological remains of Ashkenaz in Germany and northern France. She also facilitated a number of contacts with relevant scholars. Among these, I am most appreciative of Heidelberg University doctoral student Stefanie Fuchs, who has now worked for more than a decade on the medieval miqva’ot of Ashkenaz. Her expertise and knowledge benefited me greatly, and visiting the sites of Speyer and Strasbourg with her helped me in making the chronological and methodological leap from ancient to medieval installations. Archaeologist Karin Sczech of the Landesamt für Archäologie Thuringia and art historian Maria Stürzebecher, Erfurt’s World Heritage coordinator, introduced me to the Jewish medieval sites, buildings, and installations of Erfurt; Johannes Kögler, director of the Wetterau-Museum kindly accompanied me on visits to the Friedberg miqveh, the adjacent exhibit space, and the city’s medieval cathedral; Susanne Urban, Managing Director of the ShUM-Cities, helped arrange for visits to the synagogues and ritual pools of Worms and Mainz; Bettina Bärnighausen, Sammlungsleiterin and Stellvertretende Museumsleiterin of the Schlossmuseum Sondershausen enabled my visit to their cellar miqveh; Jean-Pierre Lambert, president of the society for historical Jewish

xx Acknowledgments Studies in Alsace-Lorraine, introduced me to the Strasbourg miqveh. Special gratitude goes to art historian Neta Bodener, currently working on a monograph on the medieval miqva’ot of Ashkenaz, for reading and commenting on a draft of the second chapter of this book. Her overarching knowledge in both visual and material culture, as well as contemporary texts, was invaluable. Andreas Lehnertz was especially helpful in providing useful information regarding archival and source material relevant to various bathing installations. For background on ancient synagogues, specifically as it relates to questions of gender, I owe much to Bernadette Brooten’s groundbreaking research. I have used her work for the past twenty years in my seminars on Jewish worship. It is only recently that we began to communicate directly following her visit (unfortunately, only through Zoom) in my class which led to fruitful discussions on gender in sacred space. It is thanks to her expertise and perspective, and also to other recent publications on women in synagogues, that I have approached questions about worship at Avignon and in the Comtat Venaissin at the time of papal governance. Regarding synagogues in France, I am most thankful to Nadia Naudeix, director of the Service du Patrimoine et des Musées, Cavaillon, for her valuable pointers on thematic and practical issues surrounding the city’s Jewish heritage. Sandrine Bressy, Angelique Lopez, and Lucie Tourneux kindly facilitated access to synagogue and archival materials. Meyer Benzecrit, president of the Association Cultuelle Israélite de Carpentras, generously enabled me to visit and photograph the synagogue and provided me with valuable information on the management of the city’s Jewish heritage. Above all, I would like to thank Aurélie Bonan of the Inventaire général du patrimoine culturel de la Région Sud-Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur, for her attentive reading of my chapter on sacred space, and her numerous valuable comments. In anticipation of my research on Israeli film, I co-organized a conference on Gender in Israeli and Palestinian Film together with Najat Abdulhaq, held at Brown University in early 2020. I am grateful for the Scheuer Fund, the Ruth and Joseph Moskow Endowment in Judaic Studies, as well as the Herbert H. Goldberger Lectureship Fund of Brown University, which enabled me first to gather a select and distinguished group of scholars and film directors and then to publish the proceedings. I am most thankful to the conference participants, to whom I owe my introduction to this vast and rich field. Sa’ed Atshan has been a wonderful partner in debating the literature and specifically the papers presented at this conference, and during the editorial process for the resulting publication.3 I am especially grateful to Gertrud Koch who has provided invaluable guidance in navigating the literature on feminist film theory. Meir Russo, director of the Jerusalem Cinematheque archives, has advised me on multiple resources and contacts relevant to Israeli film. A special thanks goes to him. Logistical help with online screening resources, archives, and data sets, including the conversion of much of the relevant literature into digital format (made necessary not only by Covid-19 but also my practice of working in seclusion), was provided by several research assistants, including Brown University undergraduates Benjamin Connor, Kendall Krantz, and Olivia McCarthy-Kelley. Nesya Nelkin’s

Acknowledgments  xxi intimate knowledge of biblical and rabbinic literature, both the original versions as well as various translations, was invaluable in helping me to standardize all quotes and references throughout the book. It was a pleasure to work with these students. Ronit Cohen offered invaluable help with Israeli film and related media coverage and literature. My son Yuval Galor watched many of the movies and series with me and discussed with me some of the relevant literature. His youthful perspective was especially interesting and enjoyable for me. Comments on early drafts of the chapter on contemporary Israel by film director Hisham Bizri, as well as Nadje Al-Ali, and Daniel Herwitz were tremendously insightful and constructive, as it was in this area I had to bridge the largest methodological gap. Special gratitude goes to Sa’ed Atshan, Ronald Florence, Karen Skinazi, and Steven Weitzman, who have read the entire manuscript and who have provided countless useful comments and suggestions. For the wonderful drawings of miqva’ot and synagogues, I am indebted to my friend, architect Régis Péan. My deep gratitude also goes to Mary Dearborn whose close reading of my final draft helped to polish my language, which still often suffers from awkward sentence structures and unintentional puns. Most of all, I would like to thank my husband, Michael Steinberg, who has supported me throughout the research and writing process and who has read and commented on numerous drafts. But beyond his invaluable feedback as a scholar, it is his continued encouragement and love that have given me the strength and joy I feel when I read and write. Given the roughly two-thousand-year time span covered in this research project, it is difficult to claim any biographical motivation or backstory. Yet, each of the chapters relates to a region I have lived in for an extended period, thus making them all a part of my life and identity: Israel, Germany, and France. Though never fully settled in any of these countries, I am attached to and feel at home in all of them, culturally and linguistically. Yet it is my Jewish identity that dominates these experiences and allows me to feel anchored and comfortable regardless of where I live or travel. Despite my full commitment to the Jewish roots that define my family and personal life, these roots are not static. My Jewish heritage has been a matter of constant inquiry, learning, and discovery, specifically with regard to questions of gender and the position of women. I am grateful that growing up I was surrounded, influenced, and inspired by strong, independent, and accomplished women, including my grandmother, Klara; my great-aunt, Lili; my aunt, Catherine; my mother, Marta; and my older sister, Agi (Agnes). Klara (Klara Feldman Meisel (August 31, 1902, Miskolc–March 19, 1988, Düsseldorf), or Klarimama, as we used to call her, as a result of the Numerus Clausus imposed on Jews, left her parents’ home as a young woman to study chemistry at the Deutsche Technische Hochschule Brunn in the Czech Republic, for which she had to learn German. She was the institution’s first female graduate. She survived her husband, Edouard Meisel, and her daughter, Agnes Meisel, and tried to rebuild her life from scratch three times after her incarceration in Auschwitz was over: first in Kolozsvár, where she reunited with her son, Andrei, my father, then in Israel, and finally in Germany. Though emotionally broken, she remained a hard-working and strong woman. She would always tell us

xxii Acknowledgments that, “Education was the most important thing, no one can ever take from you as long as you are alive—unlike your home, your belongings, your hair, your teeth, your flesh, and most importantly, your loved ones.” She insisted that my sister and I learn many languages as it was impossible to predict where, as Jews, we would end up living. Her sister Lili (September 23, 1909, Miskolc–September 18, 2001, Bourg-la-Reine)—unlike my grandmother who retained much of the darkness she had experienced in the camps—had a bright spirit. She managed to escape deportation by leaving Romania for France, where part of our family had already settled. She and her daughter, who was ten when they arrived in France—soon after which Lili’s husband died—survived by hiding, first in Paris, then in the Dordogne, and finally in Nice. After the end of the war, Lili made ends meet, initially by working in a laundry, and subsequently in an art supply store in Montmartre, where I loved hanging out. I enjoyed visiting her in her charming home in Bourg-la-Reine on weekends and during vacations and considered her my third grandmother. Her daughter, Catherine Tchobroutsky (January 19, 1930, Ózd–May 24, 2021, Châtenay-Malabry), was my closest and favorite relative and I stayed in regular touch with her until her death in 2021. She was the first woman gynecology professor in France. I have especially fond memories of the summers we spent in her summer home in the Dordogne, together with her husband, Georges, and their two daughters, Anne and Claire. My mother, Marta David Meisel (Timișoara, January 3, 1937), studied civil engineering at the Polytechnic Institute of Cluj-Napoca in Romania and completed her degree at the Université Libre de Bruxelles while raising a child, learning French, the school’s required language, and struggling to pay for the most basic living needs as a refugee. She was involved in the construction of numerous roads, buildings, and bridges across Germany and Europe. Most importantly, however, she was in charge of running our household and our lives in all aspects, especially as our father was severely disabled, physically and emotionally—injuries he sustained during his incarceration in the camps. My sister Agi was the first person who, even as a teenager, stood up for feminist causes and curated her private and professional choices accordingly. I often challenged the very term “feminism,” the concept itself, and the various movements that grew from it, and it took me a long time, much longer than it did her, to realize that not all women were strong and powerful. Understanding the structural and societal constraints that do not always foster equality of women in the private and public domains of life, not to mention sexist, misogynist, and patriarchal discrimination, was something I came to surprisingly late. I decided to dedicate this book to my aunt, Agnes Meisel (March 20, 1925, Kolozsvár–March 5, 1945, Flossenbürg), my father’s sister, who had the same name as my sister, and whom I only know from photos and stories that our surviving relatives told us about her, as well as her diary and the letters she wrote in impeccable Hungarian, Romanian, French, or German. She was a brilliant and accomplished young woman and had finished high school with flying colors not long before she was deported. She was last seen by her mother, Klara, as she

Acknowledgments  xxiii collapsed in her arms, and before her body was picked up and thrown on a truck, joining a mountain of corpses. It is these women, individually and together, who have shaped my interest in striving for knowledge and in trying to make sense of the many mysteries that surround us. Yet, while their lives have inspired me, the present study also builds on my tireless obsession with exploring Judaism through the ages, from different angles and using a variety of methodological approaches. My primary attention to visual and material culture has defined most of my education, teaching, research, and writing. Jewish Women: Between Conformity and Agency, however, is my first book project that engages Jewish identity from the perspective of gender and sexuality. I hope this tangled voyage will extend long beyond this book. Notes 1 Katharina Galor, “What Were They Wearing? Jewish Women and Social Practice in Late Antiquity,” in Conference on Gender and Social Norms in Ancient Israel, Early Judaism and Christianity. Texts and Material Culture, Proceedings of Conference held at the University of Koblenz-Landau, Germany, February 18–21, 2016, eds. Michaela Bauks et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2019), 37–53. 2 Katharina Galor, “Qumran’s Plastered Pools: A New Perspective,” in Khirbet Qumran et ‘Ain Feshkha II, Studies of Anthropology, Physics and Chemistry, eds. Jean-Baptiste Humbert and Jan Gunneweg (Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandehoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 169–98; Katharina Galor and Eric Meyers, “The Stepped Water Installations of the Western Summit,” in The Architecture, Stratigraphy, and Artifacts of the Western Summit of Sepphoris, eds. Eric Meyers et al. (Pennsylvania: Eisenbrauns, 2018), 419–44. 3 Sa’ed Atshan and Katharina Galor, eds., Reel Gender. Palestinian and Israeli Cinema. New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2022.

Reference List Atshan, Sa’ed and Katharina Galor, eds. Reel Gender: Palestinian and Israeli Cinema. London: Bloomsbury, 2022. Galor, Katharina. “Qumran’s Plastered Pools: A New Perspective.” In Science and Archaeology at Khirbet Qumran and ‘Ain Feshkha, edited by Jean-Baptiste Humbert and Jan Gunneweg, 169–198. Fribourg: Presses Universitaires de Fribourg, 2003. ———. “What Were They Wearing? Jewish Women and Social Practice in Late Antiquity.” In Journal of Ancient Judaism. Supplements, Conference on Gender and Social Norms in Ancient Israel, Early Judaism and Christianity. Texts and Material Culture, Proceedings of Conference Held at the University of Koblenz-Landau, Germany, February 18–21, 2016, edited by Michaela Bauks, Katharina Galor, and Judith Hartenstein, 37–53. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2019. Galor, Katharina and Eric Meyers. “The Stepped Water Installations of the Western Summit.” In The Architecture, Stratigraphy, and Artifacts of the Western Summit of Sepphoris, Vol. 1, edited by Eric M. Meyers, Carol L. Meyers, and Benjamin D. Gordon, 419–444. Pennsylvania: Eisenbrauns, 2018.

Introduction Anonymous Portraits

Cherchez la femme, pardieu ! Cherchez la femme ! Alexandre Dumas, Les Mohicans de Paris, 1854

We know much about Babatha, a Jewish woman from the town of Mahoza (located south of the Dead Sea), who lived and died during the second century CE. A bundle of 34 neatly organized documents found along with several objects, all identified as her personal belongings, give us an insight into the complexities of her personal and communal lives. Discovered by archaeologist Yigael Yadin in 1960–1961 in her last abode, a cave in the Nahal Hever area (west of the Dead Sea), these finds made it possible for twentieth- and twenty-first-century scholars to reconstruct most of her life journey, including her marital and other family relations, as well as the circumstances of her premature death.1 Babatha survived two husbands, Jesus (Yeshua) and Judah. She had a son with the former and shared the latter with another spouse. It is generally assumed that she, together with other Jewish inhabitants of Mahoza and Ein Gedi, found refuge in the cave during the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt (132–135 CE) and that, once discovered, they escaped and died somewhere in the desert. Based on the archaeological remains we can reconstruct not only her life story—her name, the names of her relatives, and her financial picture—but also significant aspects of the historical, religious, socioeconomic, cultural, linguistic, and legal contexts of the communities she belonged to or was related to.2 Despite having been widowed twice, and losing custody of her only son, Babatha had held her own in various legal battles around her and her son’s possessions. But perhaps the most valuable aspect of the documents and associated artifacts (Figure 0.1) is that they add to, and even correct, the knowledge we have about Jewish women’s position (marital, social, and legal) as derived from Mishnaic and Talmudic texts. There is also the case of Bruriah, whose story has seen numerous commentaries and interpretations from antiquity to the present—unlike the life of Babatha, whose story took almost two millennia to surface. Bruriah is said to have lived in the second century CE and was one of several women scholars mentioned in the Talmud. Praised for her wisdom and breadth of knowledge, she is described as having “learned three hundred halakhot in one day from three hundred Sages” (B. Pesachim 62b). Rashi, who lived 900 years after her time, added a variation to her life story that describes her being seduced by one of her husband’s students, DOI:  10.4324/9781003440499-1

2 Introduction

Figure 0.1  Items found near Babatha’s documents, Cave of Letters, second century CE, Nahal Hever, Israel. Photo by Moshe Ken. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. https://www​.imj​.org​.il​/en​/collections​/395651​-0.

leading to feelings of great shame and ultimately to her suicide.3 Less intimidated by Bruriah’s intellectual faculties and social impact, but equally engaged with how the past can be reintegrated into a new cultural and temporal context is Avraham Kushnir’s Israeli film drama Bruriah from 2008 (Figure 0.2), featuring the story of a modern Orthodox woman (Hadar Galron) and making the plot “the summit of the conflict between man and woman … a microcosm of what is at the heart of our existence.”4 Though Bruriah has captured the imagination of many and represents one of “the few examples of women in rabbinic literature known by name,” it is likely that Bruriah never really existed.5 The figure of Esther is not only legendary for her heroic deeds but is equally important for her iconic appearance on the third-century CE Dura Europos synagogue wall in Syria (Figure 0.3). I will repeatedly inspect this appearance for clues regarding Jewish women’s bodies and how Esther and women more generally would have engaged Jewish patriarchal traditions, norms, and expectations with their own will and agency. I bring her back once again as I write about the Purim play performed in several towns of southern France when, during the eighteenth century, Jews, as their Christian neighbors, were under the governance of the popes. And I ask how women in these Jewish communities were at once relegated to the most discriminatory spaces within their houses of worship, and yet seemingly on a more equal footing with men in celebrations of this heroine in the very heart of their Jewish Quarters. While Esther was likely not a historical figure either, her fictional persona has shaped

Introduction  3

Figure 0.2  Bruria (Hadar Galron) and her husband Yaakov (Baruch Brener) in Avraham Kushnir’s movie Bruria from 2008. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Figure 0.3  The Purim triumph with Queen Esther, detail, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain.

the imagination and practice of countless Jews and Jewish communities around the world, including those of prominent authors and artists.6 More recently, in the context of feminist and gender studies, Esther, as well as her husband’s first wife, Vashti, have found their way to the center of many scholarly and popular versions of textual, visual, and material culture.7 Their play, their performance

4 Introduction of agency, and the way in which they have shaped gender politics in Jewish history and religion have had a common and persistent thread for the past two millennia. And while these women, along with other portraits of legendary biblical and Talmudic heroes and heroines, as well as countless named historical or contemporary figures, stand for much of what is of interest to me in this study on Jewish women, this inquiry encompasses mostly unnamed, anonymous individuals and communities. I am concerned with the ordinary woman, her body, her mind, her thoughts, and her actions, or in the least the remaining traces, reflections, projections, and reincarnations of largely forgotten and invisible female presences. This study is about beings who are, or have been, marginalized, silenced, or ignored, both in their original contexts and communities and also in scholarship.8 The goal is to complement and at times challenge the perspective of the androcentric texts that have served as the primary basis to transmit and study Jewish history, thought, and life. In other words, the aim is to render the bodies, faces, and voices of these effaced women visible. Alternative indicators of human presence and participation in social construction, including visual and material testimonies, will serve to complicate and at times correct a mostly biased understanding of Judaism, specifically Jewish women. I am interested in bringing centuries, indeed millennia, of the existence of women who identified or were identified as Jewish to the center of the stage. My wish is to acknowledge their existence and to underscore their roles in shaping religion, cultures, and identities. Giving women the central role here requires no less of an understanding of the place of men and of the relationships between women and men. Complex questions of gender roles and dynamics within Judaism from antiquity to the present are therefore in play. In this regard, I can—indeed must—lean on the expertise of scholars who have dedicated themselves to studying women’s histories in various chronological, social, and geographical contexts. While scholars use vastly different practices and perspectives to tackle what are considered separate fields of study (gender in ancient, medieval, modern, and contemporary studies), my aim is to engage these different approaches in a unified manner, without the usual compartmentalization. I also attempt to remain mindful of the different kinds of “Judaisms” that I bring into dialogue with multiple currents of feminist consciousness. Despite the recognition that Judaism as it is praractised in its numerous forms today is rooted in traditions and regulations that were formulated by the rabbis of the Talmud in the centuries following the destruction of the Second Jewish Temple by the Romans in 70 CE, and despite the fact that Judaism has maintained countless customs and rituals from nearly 2,000 years ago to this day, it cannot be reduced to a monolithic religion and culture. To the contrary. Judaism and Jewish identities consistently reveal multiple strands and possibilities of practices, perceptions, and potentials. Most scholars of Jewish antiquity have long abandoned the notion that there was a cohesive or normative form of Judaism, advocating instead for the much more

Introduction  5 adept term “Judaisms” when examining the multitude of communities and sects that existed during the Second Temple period, and following the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple.9 As Jewish communities developed throughout the world— with migration defined by a multitude of factors, including such disparate reasons as persecution or economic opportunity—religious and cultural beliefs and practices shaped a range of different customs, beliefs, and identities, so that using the term “Judaisms” to reflect the diverse social, racial, and gender dynamics of Jewish communities, groups, and individuals throughout history seems appropriate.10 To further complicate matters, bringing women representing various forms of Judaism into dialogue within multiple currents of “feminist consciousnesses” requires maintaining focus and unified arguments to avoid getting lost. The study of Jewish women in diverse geographic and chronological contexts demands the engagement with period-specific methodological tools. Feminist consciousness exists in pre-modern contexts, but its analysis requires some element of translation when theoretical models are used.11 The upside of devoting a book-length study to Jewish women, specifically those whose lives have left no or little traces, should be obvious enough. But there is also a significant downside, namely the potential legitimation of a binary that has become embedded in most contexts of Jewish life and historiography. This social construct is partly anchored in the fact that Judaism as it has evolved over the last couple of millennia—not unlike other monotheistic religions—has been shaped to a large extent by a text-oriented culture. Focused on the readings and teachings of biblical and rabbinic writings, most interpretations over the centuries have reinforced and perpetuated rules, norms, and traditions built on a logic of gender duality. This is not to say that traditional Jewish texts are blind to the notion that this binary has its own limitations. This is evident when the texts address the reality of androgyny and/or overlapping feminine and masculine qualities that often defy biologically apparent distinctions. Beginning with the reading of the dual creation stories of Genesis 1 and 2, much discussion has revolved around the question of how and when this binary division came into being. As Daniel Boyarin has argued, “[T]he first created human, the male and female of Genesis 1, was an androgyne” and understood as an actual corporeal intersexual human being by many of the rabbis, “which was then split in two in the second chapter to form the two sexes.” Boyarin further claims that while the Hellenistic formations, including Philo, some of the Orthodox fathers, and many gnostics, perceived this primal androgyne as “a de-gendered, uncorporeal spirituality, as practiced in celibate communities, the Rabbis regard marriage and sexual intercourse as the return to the originary and ideal state of the human being.”12 The fact that the rabbis have invested tirelessly in organizing and reinforcing norms and laws according to a gender duality indicates their recognition—indeed, knowledge—that there was some fluidity that needed attention. Or as Charlotte Fonrobert has pointed out, this consciousness produced questions, such as, “What if a person is neither man or woman? What if duality is embodied in one person? What if a person is not one but two, man (andras) and woman (gynae), an androginos?”13 Gender fluidity among the authors of the biblical and Talmudic writings,

6 Introduction however, has only been addressed in recent scholarship, and most textual studies and interpretations are still primarily concerned with establishing the social, religious, and sexual differences between women and men. Modern Jewish gender politics begins with the first women’s movements and feminist initiatives around the mid-nineteenth century, when the patriarchal structure of Judaism and its inherent gender hierarchy were challenged in a systematic manner, both through activism and in scholarship. Many of these early efforts were geared toward challenging gender inequalities in social and political realms (often focusing on women’s suffrage)—with overlapping and at times coordinated efforts among women in Europe, the United States, and Palestine. Soon, however, rising awareness of gender injustices began to reshape religious practices and text exegesis.14 Without detailing how Jewish women’s participation in Reform Judaism spread from Germany to the United States and more recently to Israel, and without tracing these women’s contributions to other, more gender-egalitarian movements of Judaism, including the Conservative and Reconstructionist streams, we can appreciate these women’s actions and their long-lasting challenge to Judaism’s patriarchal basis and its binary gender constructs. Yet Judaism’s enduring attachment to the traditional sex binary and its perpetuation in the context of Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox Judaism—as well as in much of Israel’s political structure— explains why focusing primarily on women is still valid and necessary. And this, notwithstanding the sound feminist critique of the focus on women exclusively, which can result in the reinforcement of the very dualism it seeks to critique. This concern has been aptly articulated by Fonrobert, who discerns various trends in the “making of Jewish gender”: From early on, the project of Jewish feminist criticism has been to question the hierarchy and the exclusionary mechanisms inherent in the gender duality of rabbinic law. Feminist critics strove to diagnose—and continue to diagnose—the root cause of women’s exclusion from the traditional production of rabbinic intellectual culture, the culture of talmud Torah, but they did not necessarily attend to its underlying logic. […] But what Jewish feminist critics have not questioned is the rabbinic commitment to a conceptual gender duality as such. The reasons for this are of course complicated, but surely one reason is that so much work needed to be done (and continues to be done) to render women visible in an intellectual culture from which they had been excluded and in which they have been invisible for so many centuries. Where women had to gain visibility, a voice, a presence, Jewish feminist criticism itself needed to be committed to gender duality. It is queer theory (and practice) that has come to question the very logic of gender duality, and to apply this question to the production of rabbinic normativity as well. […] the rabbinic intellectual project merely reflected what in social reality is the duality of “women” (nashim) and “men” (anashim), merely inflecting it with their values. It is the quasi-self-evident metahistorical continuity of gender duality that allows us to read ourselves into those rabbinic texts, with the effect that women and men today self-evidently fill the shoes set out by the

Introduction  7 categories articulated in the earliest rabbinic laws, in many cases by reflex more than due to reflection.15 This study’s decision to focus on women, however, is deliberate, and based on ample consideration of the available data and methodological tools. Traditional gender dualisms tend to be affirmed by visual and material evidence. Men in most Jewish visual interpretations tend to be unequivocally masculine, and women unequivocally feminine. Such is the case in both two and three-dimensional renderings—though fewer of the latter exist. Defining gender in material culture (apart from biological anthropological investigations) is arguably even more difficult. As archaeologist Marlena Whiting rightly noted, material remains, not unlike texts, have been analyzed to a large extent with “a (Western) androcentric bias in which the ‘ungendered’, ‘objective’, ‘neutral’ valence is consciously or unconsciously male.”16 To explore artifacts, architectural spaces, sites, and landscapes through a gendered lens often limits us in the scope of questions we can ask.17 And though I wish with the present study to encourage further research in this direction—that is, gendering visual and material culture—I realize that the task is complex, in particular as the scholar’s analyses and conclusions depend frequently on those who originally record, process, and publish the findings. The tools and methodologies available to art historians and archaeologists working in the area of Jewish studies are still underdeveloped, unable to fully do justice to marginalized sexes and genders. Still, valiant efforts have been made, and without those, my own work could not test these frontiers in gender-sensitive research on Judaism.18 Methodologically, my study integrates text with visual and material culture.19 With regard to the artifacts, architectures, sites, and films I have chosen, I am using traditional and contemporary methods of analysis as practiced in the fields of art history, archaeology, and film and media studies. In comparison to film and media studies, where feminist, queer, and gender theory have been at the forefront of the field, art historical and archaeological approaches to gender and sexuality are less common in Jewish studies. And it is perhaps not completely unrelated that film, in its form and contemporaneity, possesses a distinct advantage for the engagement of the psychological and emotional layers of individuals. Since, however, my goal is to create as much coherence as possible in this interdisciplinary, cross-cultural, and intertemporal study, I am centering my discussions as much as possible on the case studies’ shared and overlapping concerns. These include the focus on women, their relation to men, their Jewish identity and practice, the visual and material record, the role of biblical and rabbinic traditions, and the question of women’s compliance (or noncompliance) to gender norms. I understand agency in terms of the intent and capacity to shape and convey practice, meaning, and identity. This quality defines both people and objects. Indeed, Jewish women’s agency proceeds from a position of engagement with rules and traditions that intersect with gender. In this regard, the relation between conformity and agency (in my title and throughout this study) is not to be understood as a rigid binary, but rather as a dialogue and dialectic in a continuing gendered negotiation. Though the term and the concept of agency seems to adhere mostly to the

8 Introduction sociology, anthropology, and gender analysis of contemporary societies, it is an idea of equal importance to the gendered experiences of ancient, medieval, and modern life. My notion of agency is informed by critical explorations by feminist scholars who since the late 1990s have expanded the scope of analysis to encompass intersectional, interdisciplinary, transnational, and non-Western perspectives on gender and sexuality. Judith Butler’s and Saba Mahmood’s interventions in postenlightenment and post-colonial gender politics have proven especially important in placing women’s agency into the texture of gender and sexuality studies. Both have formulated ideas that contribute to my own understanding of Jewish women. As one of the most influential theorists of agency, Judith Butler’s work has influenced the way numerous feminist theorists have since defined subjectification, agency, and signification. In Gender Trouble and elsewhere she has argued that the gendered subject is constituted through performativity and that the very concept of performativity stipulates a theory of agency.20 This claim is based on three principles. The first is that every subject comes into being by action. The second purports that each subject requires recognition from another subject. The third is that recognition has to be understood in relation to a norm. In other words, a subject that wants to be recognized only exists through the performance of ritualized repetition of acts, gestures, or desires. The result is an illusory identity that is only recognizable if the subject performs in accordance with familiar gendered norms.21 In Bodies That Matter, Butler revisits her concept of agency, and articulates the distinction between performance and performativity.22 Whereas an “act” is linked to performance, a “process” is associated with performativity.23 In other words, for performativity, there is an insistence on the notion of process to underline the “compulsory reiterative or ritual practice” that defines both gender and sex.24 These key notions of her work are directly relevant and applicable to my present inquiry on gender, as it is my perception that only those individuals who perform gendered norms that are specifically Jewish or linked to a Jewish context, can be recognized as such, as Jewish subjects. Since my focus is on the repetitive and cyclical reiteration of biblical and post-biblical traditions in various historical contexts, this approach of gendered performativity is especially relevant. Unlike Butler, however, who attributes gendered norms exclusively to subjects or persons, I focus on gendered norms as also perceptible in visual and material traces. Mahmood, especially in Politics and Piety, has defined her own views on agency, some of which engage Butler’s theory, but most of which are formulated around the notions of piety—Muslim in her own focus but relevant to other religious traditions as well.25 While Mahmood agrees with Butler’s stipulation that agency is not based on a subject as a foundational entity, she rejects the universality of her colleague’s theory. Mahmood’s ethnographic study of the mosque movement in Cairo, an organization that invites women from different socioeconomic backgrounds to learn about Islam and lead a pious life, argues that there is a stark contrast between agency in queer politics (as defined by Butler) and agency in a community that lives according to non-liberal traditions and religious norms. Agency, according to Mahmood, is to be understood “not as a synonym

Introduction  9 for resistance to relations of domination but as a capacity for action that historically specific relations of subordination enable and create.”26 Mahmood not only doubts the universality of the wish to be free from relations of subordination and, especially for women, from social and political organizations of male domination but also that the single solution would be resistance. In her words, “the capacity for agency is entailed not only in acts that resist norms but also in the multiple ways in which one inhabits norms.”27 In this dimension, Mahmood’s understanding of agency through religious practice and performance of piety also informs my notion of agency as it is primarily religious identities expressed visually, physically, verbally, and textually that I consider here.28 Finally, but as most relevant to my own inquiry, Orit Avishai, in her study on Jewish Orthodox women, specifically their observance of ritual purity (niddah), has conceptualized her theory of agency.29 Engaging a number of Butler’s and Mahmood’s theoretical approaches to agency constructively, Avishai rejects what she identifies as four different models of agency especially relevant to gendertraditional religions. Scholars who work on religiosity within Jewish, Christian, and Muslim communities, in her view, mostly understand agency as either a form of resistance, empowerment, instrumentalization, or compliance.30 The resistance agency model, Avishai argues, especially popular among early feminist scholars, stipulates that women who challenge or aspire to change conventions or rules dominant within their religious communities exert agency.31 In this view, agency is equated with free will, autonomous preferences, and independent actions. While resistance was originally identified as a quality that reduced or countered religiosity, more recent scholarship tends to recognize the possibility of resistance and piety being co-existent.32 The empowerment agency theory according to Avishai, similar to the resistance agency model, especially its earlier formulations, also considers that gender-conservative religions are harmful to women.33 Unlike the resistance model, however, the empowerment paradigm does not imply that women change or challenge religious rules, but, rather, that they simply alter their ways of expressing beliefs and performing rituals. Their goal and the outcome are that these women feel empowered. Studies in this line of literature are primarily focused on affect, and explore how religious practice makes women feel, rather than on their actions.34 The instrumental agency model has some similarities with the empowerment agency concept but highlights mostly non-religious experiences resulting from ritual practices or advantages that women draw from secular domains of their lives.35 Along the lines of the resistance and empowerment agency concepts, the theory of instrumental agency is also based on the idea that religious women ultimately hope to escape patriarchal rules and oppression. Rather than focusing on internal feelings of empowerment (as relative to the model of empowerment agency), scholars representing this school focus on agency that translates into external advantages that women can achieve, including, for instance, educational or professional advancements.36 The theorization of compliant agency, the final model outlined by Avishai, provides alternative ways for women in gender-conservative religions to exert their

10 Introduction authority without necessarily defying the religious customs and laws. This model purports that women can perform agency in numerous distinct and personal ways, despite the appearance of duplication, coercion, and unity to the outside observer. Rather than seeking autonomy, where individuals act for themselves—as is the case for the model that argues for resistance, empowerment, or the instrumental type—women according to this theory may simply not strive to be independent or act on their own behalf, but they instead aspire to be and act for a divine God.37 Integrating her thoughts into the theorization of the compliant agency model, Avishai proposes her own concept of women’s agency which she defines primarily through religious conduct. “Doing religion,” so she argues, is “associated with a search for authentic religious subjecthood and […] religiosity is shaped in accordance with the logics of one’s religion […].”38 Based on the assumption that subjects operate, perform, and thus become within power relations and normative expectations, she defines two further key concepts. First, that doing religion is a performance of identity, and second that actions are motivated by the goal of becoming an “authentic religious subject” in contradistinction to a “secular Other.”39 Specifically in conversation with Butler’s and Mahmood’s theories, Avishai makes several crucial observations. To mark her own theoretical territory, she distinguishes between Butler’s concept of “doing gender”—which she understands as an unconscious performance of coercive and oppressive norms that preserve inequality—and her own definition of “doing religion”—which follows a semiconscious and self-authoring scheme.40 Avishai elaborates that Jewish Orthodoxy, and religiosity more generally, are constructions that are based on the enactment of religiosity within the context of social norms and regulatory discourses.41 Unlike the models that define agency by resistance, empowerment, or instrumentalization and thus embrace a fabricated dichotomy that opposes compliance and agency, her doing religion brings the two into conversation. In this regard, Avishai embraces Mahmood’s position that women’s beliefs and practice in gender-conservative religions is only enigmatic from the perspective of the observer who refuses to recognize the presence of agency among women who effusively embrace religiosity.42 In other words, in this regard, Avishai extrapolates Mahmood’s insights focused on pious Muslim women to pious Jewish women and highlights the need to appreciate the complexity, ambiguity, and transience inherent to religious traditions. While Avishai’s understanding of agency among the three highlighted models comes closest to my own concept of gendering Judaism—not merely because her work focuses on Jewish women but mostly because she does not perceive of conformity and agency as oppositional—my methodology requires a fundamental extension. Since my study aims to bring to life women’s voices as perceptible in a dialogue between texts and visual and material culture, I would note that it is not only humans and socialized subjects who carry agency. Images, artifacts, architectures, and films also convey agency. Their meaning and power are linked to their interaction with people and communities. That is, humans produce, construct, and give birth to visual and material culture, and it is they who impart their built environment with intrinsic qualities, in part intentional, but also to some extent

Introduction  11 unintentional, unforeseeable, and uncontrollable. In other words, people who use a certain object, move through or inhabit a space, or watch a film, may identify the intended purpose and apply the projected interaction. However, depending on the character of a specific individual or community, as well as the users’ or observers’ unique positionality, the agency of image and artifact may translate in completely different and unexpected ways. For instance, a decorated ring discovered in an ancient tomb may signal a female quality to some, but be indicative of a male burial to others, but was in fact intended as an object indicating rank associated with both women and men. Or else, the cinematic portrayal of a suffering veiled woman may perform the directors’ intended criticism of a religious community but could be perceived of by someone who watches the film and who is part of the very community depicted, as an untruthful and offensive representation. These observations resonate with what John Robb has written on agency as applied to archaeological discoveries: […] agency is fundamentally material, for two reasons: because material things mediate and form the context for relationships between people, and because people form important relations with material things. The materiality of agency provides the basis for formulating a range of interpretative strategies with which we can tackle the material […].43 In other words, rather than examining gender politics and the question of Jewish women’s agency through the exclusive lens of literature (texts and scholarly works), I place women’s “performance of gender” through the testimony of imagery and materiality at the center of my exploration. Attributing a more equal role to women in the production of and engagement with visual and material culture than the Jewish scriptures (the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud), provides more space to women’s agency, their voices, their bodies, and their sexuality. Thus, rather than ascribing agency exclusively to the interactions between individuals and communities, between humans and institutions, and between people and politics, I propose to ascribe agency to visual and material culture as well. Agency in my approach is therefore defined as intrinsic to the materiality, but also as an attribute that exists within and in dialogue with people, individuals, and communities. To return once more to conformity and agency, given my reliance on images and artifacts for an identity construct of Jewish women, both from past and present times, if it weren’t for those individuals who largely lived in conformity to their communities’ rules and traditions, it would be difficult if not impossible to integrate and evaluate their contributions to Jewish history and culture. As active participants of Jewish society, their impact is only discernable if customs are adopted, copied, rejected, or challenged. More simply put, women’s agency has to engage with Jewish norms and has to be compliant at some level to produce and leave visible and tangible traces. To illustrate this idea, let me elaborate on Esther. If this biblical figure is featured wearing a bodice that reveals her womanly form and shows her beautifully styled hair against the background of a long veil, the simple fact that she appears on the wall of the synagogue of Dura Europos within a larger biblical

12 Introduction narrative context makes her identifiable as a Jewish woman. She follows certain conventions and fashions of her cultural Persian and Jewish milieu. She complies with local and religious conventions. Yet she also exerts her agency as a woman who dares to approach her husband the king without being summoned or invited to do so; as someone who knows how to style her modest yet seductive appearance, and as a heroine who saves her fellow Persian Jews from extermination. Keeping these theoretical complexities in mind, I consider the question of Jewish women’s agency as the backbone of my transhistorical and transcontextual study. I engage four geographical, chronological, and methodological contexts: so-called social skin in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine (64 BCE–638 CE); ritual purity in medieval Ashkenaz (eleventh–fourteenth centuries); sacred space in papal Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin (thirteenth–eighteenth centuries); marriage and divorce in Israeli film (twentieth–twenty-first centuries). Structurally, the introduction and conclusions tie the different chapters or case studies together, creating a dialogue between patriarchal norms and women’s agency in shaping and challenging conventions and regulations. The four chapters are organized in similar sequences, introducing the case study, outlying the geographical, historical, and cultural contexts, explicating the biblical and rabbinic legacies, focusing finally on a more in-depth presentation and discussion of the visual and material culture. The final two sections focus on a gender analysis, first by creating a dialogue of existing scholarship with new insights from an evaluation of the visual and material culture, followed by concluding remarks that highlight the conversation between the patriarchal structure and women’s agency. Beginning with an investigation of the female body—both naked and dressed— in ancient and late Syro-Palestine, the first case study on social skin (Chapter One) opens with the biblical figures of Adam and Eve and takes us through discussions of the relevant Talmudic texts. It explores how recent scholarship has increasingly focused on Judaism’s corporealities as prime indicators of religious identity in relation to both pagan and Christian communities, and more importantly, as defining gender and sexuality. Complemented by and complicated through an analysis of the surviving material evidence from Roman and Byzantine Syro-Palestine, I examine iconographic images mostly from Jewish burial sites and synagogues, as well as archaeological remains of actual clothes from domestic contexts. These include numerous organic artifacts from the Judean and Syrian deserts, such as tunics, mantles, footwear, hair covers, and jewelry. Among the leading questions is Jewish women’s agency in fashioning their bodies and appearances in light of the socioreligious norms and laws of modesty as formulated and dictated by male voices. The second case study (Chapter Two) examines the question of ritual purity in medieval Ashkenaz, specifically in relation to the actual ritual pools that have been excavated, exposed, or rediscovered in various parts of Germany and northern France. Other than referencing halakhic responsa literature (legal questions and answers addressed by prominent rabbinical authorities) in addition to biblical and Talmudic commentaries, my primary focus is the architectural features along with the function of these groundwater installations in

Introduction  13 comparison to other contemporary miqva’ot, but also their relation to the earliest miqva’ot uncovered at Jewish sites in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine period Palestine. Among the main goals is to understand how the act of ritual immersion evolved from a primarily male institution in biblical times, to a practice mostly associated with female members of the community in the Middle Ages. Rather than explicating the practice as exclusively indicative of male coercion around female sexuality, I highlight signs of women’s contribution to defining customs and rules of this essentially physical performance of piety. Sacred space in papal Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin from medieval through modern times, the next case study (Chapter Three), focuses on the escoles (synagogues) within the region’s carrières (Jewish Quarters), illustrating Jews’ marginalized position throughout the time of the Ancien Régime. Stylistically these houses of worship combine Italian, French, and Provençal architectural and decorative traits, integrating religious traditions anchored in antiquity with various contemporary European Jewish customs. Of interest is how these synagogues reference earlier houses of worship, in the diaspora, but also in ancient Palestine, including the Jerusalem Temples and the biblical desert Tabernacle of the Israelites. Key to my understanding of women’s roles in worship is the unique spatial solution applied in these southern French synagogues, relegating women to dark, lower-level spaces. In contrast to their inferior status in the synagogue, clear signs of female agency suggest that Jewish women in these communities were breaking established gender hierarchies in other domains of devotional piety anchored in biblical legacies. The fourth and final case study (Chapter Four) engages the questions of marriage and divorce in modern and contemporary Israel through the lens of film. In contrast to the Israeli state’s mostly secular Zionist principles, control of family status has been defined by Jewish Orthodox law. Beyond the goal of limiting intermarriages and thus maintaining—indeed, increasing—a predominantly Jewish demography, Israel’s rabbinical hold on matters of personal and family law has also contributed to the reinforcement of traditional gender and power relations between women and men. As active interlocutors of Israel’s sociopolitical, ethnic, and religious realms, representations of marriage and divorce in film, perhaps more so than any other medium, explore the tension between Judaism’s traditional patriarchal structure and contemporary feminist currents, and also between secular and religious law and practice. Different films and film genres engage questions of gender, examined here from three main angles: the first, on cinematic narratives of the Ashkenazi and Mizrachi populations; the second, on secular portrayals; the third, on religious characters. Feminist perspectives, including the voices of Orthodox and ultraOrthodox women, both on screen and beyond, clearly challenge and deconstruct some of the patriarchal strictures that control Jewish matrimony. Despite the vastly different geohistorical contexts of my four case studies, there are several factors that provide underlying common denominators. Each of these explorations is interested in creating a dialogue between the patriarchal legacy of the traditional texts (generally viewed as authoritative in shaping Jewish society according to a clearly defined gender hierarchy) and the chronologically corresponding visual and material culture on the other hand (as a basis to highlight

14 Introduction women’s presence, participation, and agency in shaping history and culture). While not directly linked by their chronological or geographical settings, the four discussions demonstrate the communities’ similar relationship to biblical and rabbinic writings, whose legacies of ancestry, tradition, repetition, and continuity no doubt have contributed to the fashioning of gender positions. Yet, in each of these different contexts, there is ample evidence that women—despite the persistent overall structural discrimination—have found ways to challenge male constructs of gender norms. Though the tools used in art history, archaeology, and film and media studies differ depending on the chronological, geographical, and thematic focus of inquiry, it is the challenge to traditional approaches in the study of Jewish culture that establishes a common basis for investigation. As a series, both independently and together, these examples from past and present times highlight women’s eminence in shaping Judaism. Rather than understanding the case studies as indicative of a progressive development of Jewish history and thought, the emphasis is on the perpetuation (cyclical and intertemporal) of what has been experienced as long-established traditions, framed by the acceptance of a distant authority, represented by the invisible presence of God, and transmitted through the written words. This approach, which in a sense reconciles the historical and ahistorical foundations of Judaism, resonates with Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s argument that memory has been displaced in the modern age by history.44 And thus, rather than focusing on the historicity of specific case studies or a sequential reconstruction of important chapters of Jewish thought and practice, the emphasis here is much more on how memory—the memory of the perceived foundational cornerstones of Israelite and Jewish life—has defined behaviors, beliefs, and rituals, specifically gender-specific ones. While each of these studies on their own deserves a more expansive and independent research project, the topics are both interrelated and complementary in spanning a range of significant subjects that inform women’s complex worlds of being and performing. Beginning with women’s biological bodies and how women fashioned themselves to define their place as significant social actors (Chapter One), I continue exploring how the physical ritual of immersion contributed to their distinct roles as wives and mothers (Chapter Two). Followed by studying women’s participation in public worship (Chapter Three), I end this explorative trajectory with their role in matrimony and divorce (Chapter Four). This sequence, thus—from body to skin, from physical to spiritual ritual, and from individual to conjugal—recreates the multiple dimensions and spaces in which women find a way to engage and resist the largely male-designed effort to control women’s bodies and sexuality, and to reinforce gendered social norms. Notes 1 Yigael Yadin, Bar-Kokhba: The Rediscovery of the Legendary Hero of the Second Jewish Revolt Against Rome (New York: Random House, 1971), 229–39. 2 Among the numerous valuable studies on these documents (generally with little on the archaeological context and objects found with the archive), see Tal Ilan, “Women’s Archives in the Judaean Desert,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Fifty Years after their

Introduction  15 Discovery 1947–1997, edited by Lawarence Schiffman et al. (Jerusalem: 2000), 755–60; and Hannah M. Cotton and Jonas C. Greenfield, “Babatha’s Property and the Law of Succession in the Babatha Archive,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 104 (1994), 211–24. Most recently, a new book-length study exclusively on Babatha: Philip F. Esler, Babatha's Orchard, The Yadin Papyri and an Ancient Jewish Family Tale Retold (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). 3 Rashi interprets the phrase “women are of light mind” in B. Qiddushin 80b, as indicative of women’s lack of sexual inhibition. Eitam Henkin and others suggested that it was not Rashi himself who was the author of this variation. See Eitam Henkin, “The Mystery of ‘the Bruriah incident’: A Suggested Solution,” Akadmut 21 (2008), 140–59 [Hebrew]. 4 Film director Avraham Kushnir is quoted in an article on the movie that appeared in The Jerusalem Post. Hannah Brown, “‘Bruriah’ has it all,” The Jerusalem Post, March 1, 2009. 5 On the ahistorical origin of the story, see Delphine Horvilleur, En tenue d’Ève. Féminine, pudeur et judaïsme (Paris: Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle, 2013), 161–7. For recent feminist readings on the story, see Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Tal Ilan, “Feminist Interpretations of Rabbinic Literature: Two Views,” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 4 (2001), 7–14; and Brenda Socachevsky Bacon, “Reader Response: How Shall We Tell the Story of Beruriah’s End?” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 5, Feeding an Identity: Gender, Food, and Survival (2002), 231–9. 6 For a succinct overview, see Jo Carruthers, Esther through the Centuries (Hoboken and West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2020). 7 See for instance Timothy K. Beal, The Book of Hiding. Gender, Ethnicity, Annihilation, and Esther (London: Routledge, 1997); Rachel Adelman, “‘Passing Strange’—Reading Transgender across Genre: Rabbinic Midrash and Feminist Hermeneutics on Esther,” Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 30, no. 2 (2014), 81–97; Ciin Sian Siam Hatzaw, “Reading Esther as a Postcolonial Feminist Icon for Asian Women in Diaspora,” Open Theology 7, no. 1 (2021), 1–34; and Deborah F. Sawyer, “Queen Vashti’s ‘No’ and What It Can Tell Us About Gender Tools In Biblical Narrative,” in The Bible and Feminism: Remapping the Field, edited by Yvonne Sherwood (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 343–54. 8 According to Tikva Frymer-Kensky much of the patriarchy that we associate with the Bible and the misogyny associated with the text were introduced by later generations of readers. See Tikva Frymer-Kensky, “The Bible and Women’s Studies,” in Feminist Perspectives on Jewish Studies, edited by Lynn Davidman and Shelly Tenenbaum (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 26. 9 On the term Judaisms, see, for instance, Seth Schwartz, “How Many Judaisms Were There? A Critique of Neusner and Smith on Definition and Mason and Boyarin on Categorization,” Journal of Ancient Judaism 2, no. 1 (2011), 208–38. 10 With more focus on contemporary communities and identities, see, for instance, Aaron J. Hahn Tapper, Judaisms. A Twenty-First-Century Introduction to Jews and Jewish Identities (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2016). 11 For a concise definition of feminist consciousness, see for instance Linda Kiernan, “Feminist Consciousness in Historical Perspective,” in The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Gender and Sexuality Studies, edited by Nancy A. Naples (Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedias in Social Sciences, 2016). For a good overview of feminist scholarship including new approaches on theorizing interdisciplinarity, intersectionality, critical race theory, trans studies, and genetics, see Lisa Disch and Mary Hawkesworth, eds., The Oxford Handbook of Feminist Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016); and Jennifer C. Dunn and Jimmie Manning, eds., Transgressing Feminist Theory and Discourse. Advancing Conversations across Disciplines (London: Routledge, 2018). On the failing of intersectionality in the context of Israeli film scholarship, see Yaron

16 Introduction Shemer, “Failing Intersectionality: Gender, Ethnicity, and Religious Traditions in Recent Israeli Films,” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 36, no. 5 (2019), 365–91. 12 Daniel Boyarin, Carnal Israel. Reading Sex in Talmudic Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 17–8. 13 For more extensive discussions of rabbinic legal discourses regarding gender ambiguity, see Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, “Regulating the Human Body: Rabbinic Legal Discourse and the Making of Jewish Gender,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, edited by Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Martin S. Jaffee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 293; Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, “Gender Duality and Its Subversions in Rabbinic Law,” in Gender in Judaism and Islam. Common Lives, Uncommon Heritage, edited by Firoozeh Kashani-Sabet and Beth S. Wenger (New York: New York University Press, 2015), 106; Max Strassfeld, “Classically Queer: Eunuchs and Endrogynes in Rabbinic Literature,” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, 2013, 139–40. 14 Isabelle Lacoue-Labarthe and Helen Tomlinson, “The Emergence of Jewish ‘Feminist Consciousness’,” Clio. Women, Gender, History 44 (2016), 94–121. 15 Fonrobert, “Gender Duality,” 110. 16 Marlena Whiting, “Musings on Gender, Archaeology, and Pilgrimage in the Late Antique Near East,” HospitAm: Hospitalités dans l’Antiquité méditerranéenne: sources, enjeux, pratiques, discours. Uploaded 12/6/2018. https://hospitam​.hypotheses​.org​/1380. 17 Among the noteworthy studies engaging material culture with questions of gender, see Marie Louise Stig Sørensen, Gender Archaeology (Hoboken and West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2000); Margarita Diaz-Andreu, Sam Lucy, Staša Babić, and David N. Edwards, The Archaeology of Identity. Approaches to Gender, Age, Status, Ethnicity and Religion (London and New York: Routledge, 2005). 18 Scholars who have brought gender or queer perspectives into dialogue with visual and material culture in Jewish studies include Leora Auslander, “Deploying Material Culture to Write the History of Gender and Sexuality: The Example of Clothing and Textiles,” Clio. Women, Gender, History 40 (2014), 171–95; Leora Auslander, “Jews and Material Culture,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, edited by Mitchell Hart and Tony Michels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 804–30; Melissa Raphael, Judaism and the Visual Image. A Jewish Theology of Art (London: Bloomsbury, 2009), 65–96. This approach is more developed outside the field of Jewish studies. See among others, Lisa Tickner, Feminism, Art History, and Sexual Difference (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1988); Amelia Jones ed., The Feminism and Visual Culture Reader (London and New York: Routledge, 2003); Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard eds., The Expanding Discourse. Feminism and Art History (London and New York: Routledge, 2018); Whitney Davis, Gay and Lesbian Studies in Art History (London and New York: Routledge, 2018). 19 Equally interested in exploring Jewish women’s lives from antiquity to the present, is a co-edited volume by Frederica Francesconi and Rebecca Lynn Winer. The different contributions, however, do not focus on visual and material culture. See Federica Francesconi and Rebecca Lynn Winer eds., Jewish Women’s History from Antiquity to the Present (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2021). 20 Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London and New York: Routledge, 2007). Specifically on performative agency, see Judith Butler, “Performative Agency,” Journal of Cultural Economy 3, no. 2 (2010), 147–61. 21 Butler, Gender Trouble, 28, 46. 22 Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), 4–21 23 Butler, Bodies That Matter, 2, 9, 80, 95. 24 Liese van der Watt has explored the distinction between performance and performativity in feminist scholarship and especially in the context of Judith Butler’s evolving perspec-

Introduction  17 tives. See, Liese van der Watt, “Do Bodies Matter? Performance versus Performativity,” De Arte 70 (2004), 3. 25 Saba Mahmood, Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005). 26 Saba Mahmood, “Feminist Theory, Agency, and the Liberatory Subject: Some Reflections on the Islamic Revival in Egypt,” Temenos 42, no. 1 (2006), 33–4. 27 Mahmood, “Feminist Theory,” 42. 28 Mahmood has been criticized for conducting her study from the perspective of a “diaspora intellectual” who writes about Muslim women for a Western audience and who is out of touch with the lived realities that non-Western Muslim women have to experience on a daily basis. See among others, Saadia Toor, “Imperialist Feminism Redux,” Dialectical Anthropology 36, no. 3–4 (2012), 147–60; and Afiya Zia, Faith and Feminism in Pakistan: Religious Agency or Secular Autonomy (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2018). Sindre Bangstad and Samah Selim have criticized Mahmood for presenting an ahistorical account of da’wa without linking the practices of the women of the mosque movement to other, especially feminist, women in Egypt. See Sindre Bangstad, “Saba Mahmood and Anthropological Feminism After Virtue,” Theory, Culture & Society 28, no. 3 (2011), 28–54; and Samah Selim, “Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject,” Jadaliyya, October 13, 2010. Despite my primary focus in this study being Jewish women who are pious, my intent is to explore their lives beyond sacred space. 29 See Orit Avishai, “‘Doing Religion’ in a Secular World: Women in Conservative Religions and the Question of Agency,” Gender and Society 22, no. 4 (2008), 409–33; and Orit Avishai, “Theorizing Gender from Religion Cases: Agency, Feminist Activism, and Masculinity,” Sociology of Religion: A Quarterly Review 77, no. 3 (2016), 261–79. 30 On Avishai’s four type model of agency theories, see also Kelsy Burke, “Women’s Agency in Gender-Traditional Religions: A Review of Four Approaches,” Sociology Compass 6, no. 2 (2012), 122–33. 31 Scholars who have written on women’s agency within gender-conservative religions include Linda Arthur and others. See Linda Arthur, “Deviance, Agency, and the Social Control of Women’s Bodies in a Mennonite Community,” National Women’s Studies Association Journal 10, no. 2 (1998), 75–99; Judy Brink and Joan Mencher, eds., Mixed Blessings: Gender and Religious Fundamentalism Cross Culturally (London and New York: Routledge, 1997); Shahin Gerami and Melodye Lehnerer, “Women’s Agency and Household Diplomacy: Negotiating Fundamentalism,” Gender and Society 15, no. 4 (2001), 556–73; Tova Hartman, Feminism Encounters Traditional Judaism: Resistance and Accommodation (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press); Mary Fainsod Katzenstein, Faithful and Fearless: Moving Feminist Protest Inside the Church and Military (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998); Zakia Salime, “Mobilizing Muslim Women: Multiple Voices, the Sharia, and the State,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 28, no. 1 (2008), 200–11; Mary Jo Weaver, New Catholic Women: A Contemporary Challenge to Traditional Religious Authority (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995). 32 See for instance Inshah Malik, Muslim Women, Agency and Resistance Politics: The Case of Kashmir (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 3; and Tanya Zion-Waldoks, “Politics of Devoted Resistance: Agency, Feminism, and Religion among Orthodox Agunah Activists in Israel,” Gender and Society 29, no. 1 (2015), 73. 33 Scholars who employ the empowerment argument include Lori Beaman, Joan Mencher, Omowale Tanimu Elson, Myfanwny Franks, Shaban Mir, and Michelle Wolkomir. Lori Beaman, “Molly Mormons, Mormon Feminists, and Moderates: Religious Diversity and the LDS Church,” Sociology of Religion 62, no. 1 (2001), 65–86; Omowale Tanimu Elson, “Gender-Agency as Communicated in the Intra-Interorganizational Structures of the Spiritual Baptists of Barbados: A Postcolonial Account of Cultural Resistance,” The

18 Introduction Howard Journal of Communications 18, no. 1 (2007), 15–37; Myfanwny Franks, Women and Revivalism in the West: Choosing “Fundamentalism” in a Liberal Democracy (New York: Palgrave, 2001); Shabana Mir, “Not too ‘College-Like,’ Not too Normal: American Muslim Undergraduate Women’s Gendered Discourse,” Anthropology and Education Quarterly 40, no. 3 (2009), 237–56; Michelle Wolkomir, “‘Giving it up to God’: Negotiating Femininity in Support Groups for Wives of Ex-Gay Christian Men,” Gender and Society 18, no. 6 (2004), 735–55. 34 See among others, Brenda Brasher’s study on evangelical Christian women or Jen’nan Ghazal Read and John P. Bartkowsky’s study on women who veil in Western countries. Brenda Brasher, Godly Women: Fundamentalism and Female Power (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1998); John Bartkowski and Jen’nan Ghazal Read, “Veiled Submission: Gender, Power, and Identity Among Evangelical and Muslim Women in the United States,” Qualitative Sociology 26, no. 1 (2003), 71–92. 35 On this, see Burke, “Women’s Agency,” 129–31. 36 In their study on Muslim women living in the United States, Jen’nan Ghazal Read and John Bartkowski, commented on how some of the subjects who were wearing the veil felt comfortable studying or working in mixed-gender spaces or institutions. One of their interviewees expressed that she felt respected for her “intellectual abilities” rather than her appearance. See Jen’nan Ghazal Read, and John P. Bartowski, “To Veil or Not to Veil? A Case Study of Identity Negotiation Among Muslim Women in Austin, Texas,” Gender and Society 14, no. 3 (2000), 405. Elizabeth Brusco, in her study on Colombian women who had converted to evangelical Christianity, comments on how they influenced their husbands to do the same and then used their increased assertiveness to successfully prevent their partners from consuming excessive amounts of alcohol, reducing their violent and abusive behaviors. Elizabeth Brusco, The Reformation of Machismo: Evangelical Conversion and Gender in Columbia (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995). More recently, Mary Keller has applied the concept of instrumental agency by studying the figure of the “possessed woman” to engage the question in a culturally and historically comparative study. She recognizes the prominent role these women played in their respective traditions. Mary Keller, The Hammer and the Flute: Women, Power, and Spirit Possession (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2005). 37 On this concept, see Burke, “Women’s Agency,” 130. 38 Avishai, “Doing Religion,” 409. 39 Avishai, “Doing Religion,” 413, 416, 420, 423, 427. 40 Avishai, “Doing Religion,” 413. 41 Avishai, “Doing Religion,” 428. 42 Avishai, “Doing Religion,” 412–13, 428. 43 For agency as defined in the field of archaeology, see John Robb, “Beyond Agency,” World Archaeology 42, no. 4 (2010), 493–4. See also Thomas Arentzen on the agency of things. Thomas Arentzen, “Conversing with Clothes: Germanos and Mary’s Belt,” in The Garb of Being. Embodiment and the Pursuit of Holiness in Late Ancient Christianity, edited by Georgia Frank et al. (New York: Fordham University Press, 2020), 57–76. Scholars have tried to use archaeological methods to theorize human agency. See among others Richard Lesure, “Linking Theory and Evidence in an Archaeology of Human Agency: Iconography, Style, and Theories of Embodiment,” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 12, no. 3 (2005), 237–55; Carolyn White and Mary Beaudry, “Artifacts and Personal Identity,” in International Handbook of Historical Archaeology, edited by Teresita Majewski and David Gaimster (New York: Springer, 2009), 209–25; Yannis Hamilakis et al. eds., Thinking through the Body: Archaeologies of Corporeality (New York: Springer, 2001); Lynn Meskell, “Writing the Body in Archaeology,” in Reading the Body: Representations and Remains in the Archaeological Record, edited by Alison Rautman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 13–21. Though Paul Zanker has not theorized agency, his seminal study on Augustan art and architecture

Introduction  19 establishes the very argument that agency is transmitted through images and material. See Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988). 44 Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory. The Samuel and Althea Stroum Lectures in Jewish Studies (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1996).

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20 Introduction Burke, Kelsy. “Women’s Agency in Gender-Traditional Religions: A Review of Four Approaches.” Sociology Compass 6, no. 2 (2012): 122–133. Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. London and New York: Routledge, 2007. ———. “Performative Agency.” Journal of Cultural Economy 3, no. 2 (2010): 147–161. ———. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex. London and New York: Routledge, 1993. Carruthers, Jo. Esther through the Centuries. Hoboken and West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2020. Cotton, Hannah M. and Jonas Greenfield. “Babatha’s Property and the Law of Succession in the Babatha Archive.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 104 (1994): 211–224. Davis, Whitney. Gay and Lesbian Studies in Art History. London and New York: Routledge, 2018. Diaz-Andreu, Margarita, Sam Lucy, Staša Babić, and David N. Edwards. The Archaeology of Identity. Approaches to Gender, Age, Status, Ethnicity and Religion. London and New York: Routledge, 2005. Disch, Lisa and Mary Hawkesworth, eds. The Oxford Handbook of Feminist Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Dunn, Jennifer C. and Jimmie Manning, eds. Transgressing Feminist Theory and Discourse. Advancing Conversations across Disciplines. London and New York: Routledge, 2018. Elson, Omowale Tanimu. “Gender-Agency as Communicated in the Intra-Interorganizational Structures of the Spiritual Baptists of Barbados: A Postcolonial Account of Cultural Resistance.” The Howard Journal of Communications 18, no. 1 (2007): 15–37. Esler, Philip F. Babatha’s Orchard, The Yadin Papyri and an Ancient Jewish Family Tale Retold. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Fainsod Katzenstein, Mary. Faithful and Fearless: Moving Feminist Protest Inside the Church and Military. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998. Fonrobert, Charlotte Elisheva. “Regulating the Human Body: Rabbinic Legal Discourse and the Making of Jewish Gender.” In Cambridge Companion to Rabbinic Literature, edited by Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Martin S. Jaffee, 270–294. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. ———. “Gender Duality and Its Subversions in Rabbinic Law.” In Gender in Judaism and Islam. Common Lives, Uncommon Heritage, edited by Firoozeh Kashani-Sabet and Beth S. Wenger, 106–125. New York: New York University Press, 2015. Fonrobert, Charlotte Elisheva and Tal Ilan. “Feminist Interpretations of Rabbinic Literature: Two Views.” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 4 (2001): 7–14. Francesconi, Federica and Rebecca Lynn Winer. Jewish Women’s History from Antiquity to the Present. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2021. Franks, Myfanwny. Women and Revivalism in the West: Choosing “Fundamentalism” in a Liberal Democracy. New York: Palgrave, 2001. Frymer-Kensky, Tikva. “The Bible and Women’s Studies.” In Feminist Perspectives on Jewish Studies, edited by Lynn Davidman and Shelly Tenenbaum, 16–39. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994. Gerami, Shahin and Melodye Lehnerer. “Women’s Agency and Household Diplomacy: Negotiating Fundamentalism.” Gender and Society 15, no. 4 (2001): 556–573. Hahn Tapper, Aaron J. Judaisms: A Twenty-First-Century Introduction to Jews and Jewish Identities. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2016.

Introduction  21 Hamilakis, Yannis, Mark Pluciennik, and Sarah Tarlow, eds. Thinking through the Body: Archaeologies of Corporeality. New York: Springer, 2001. Hartman, Tova. Feminism Encounters Traditional Judaism: Resistance and Accommodation. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2008. Hatzaw, Ciin Sian Siam. “Reading Esther as a Postcolonial Feminist Icon for Asian Women in Diaspora.” Open Theology 7, no. 1 (2021): 1–34. Henkin, Eitam. “The Mystery of ‘the Bruriah Incident’: A Suggested Solution.” Akadmut 21 (2008): 140–159. [Hebrew]. Horvilleur, Delphine. En tenue d’Ève. Féminine, pudeur et judaïsme. Paris: Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle, 2013. Ilan, Tal. “Women’s Archives in the Judaean Desert.” In The Dead Sea Scrolls: Fifty Years after their Discovery 1947–1997, edited by Lawrence Schiffman, Emanuel Tov, and James VanderKam, 755–760. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2000. Jones, Amelia, ed. The Feminism and Visual Culture Reader. London and New York: Routledge, 2003. Keller, Mary. The Hammer and the Flute: Women, Power, and Spirit Possession. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2005. Kiernan, Linda. “Feminist Consciousness in Historical Perspective.” In The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Gender and Sexuality Studies, edited by Nancy A. Naples, Renee C. Hoogland, Maithree Wickramasinghe, and Wai Ching Angela Wong. Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedias in Social Sciences, 2016. Lacoue-Labarthe, Isabelle and Helen Tomlinson. “The Emergence of Jewish ‘Feminist Consciousness’.” Clio. Women, Gender, History 44 (2016): 94–121. Lesure, Richard G. “Linking Theory and Evidence in an Archaeology of Human Agency: Iconography, Style, and Theories of Embodiment.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 12, no. 3 (2005): 237–255. Mahmood, Saba. Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005. ———. “Feminist Theory, Agency, and the Liberatory Subject: Some Reflections on the Islamic Revival in Egypt.” Temenos 42, no. 1 (2006): 31–71. Malik, Inshah. Muslim Women, Agency and Resistance Politics: The Case of Kashmir. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. Meskell, Lynn. “Writing the Body in Archaeology.” In Reading the Body: Representations and Remains in the Archaeological Record, edited by Alison Rautman, 13–21. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000. Mir, Shabana. “Not too ‘College-Like,’ Not too Normal: American Muslim Undergraduate Women’s Gendered Discourse.” Anthropology and Education Quarterly 40, no. 3 (2009): 237–256. Raphael, Melissa. Judaism and the Visual Image. A Jewish Theology of Art. London: Bloomsbury, 2009. Read, Jen’nan Ghazal and John P. Bartowski. “To Veil or Not to Veil? A Case Study of Identity Negotiation Among Muslim Women in Austin, Texas.” Gender and Society 14, no. 3 (2000): 395–417. Robb, John. “Beyond Agency.” World Archaeology 42, no. 4 (2010): 493–520. Salime, Zakia. “Mobilizing Muslim Women: Multiple Voices, the Sharia, and the State.” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 28, no. 1 (2008): 200–211. Sawyer, Deborah F. “Queen Vashti’s ‘No’ and What It Can Tell Us About Gender Tools In Biblical Narrative.” In The Bible and Feminism: Remapping the Field, edited by Yvonne Sherwood, 343–354. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017.

22 Introduction Schwartz, Seth. “How Many Judaisms Were There? A Critique of Neusner and Smith on Definition and Mason and Boyarin on Categorization.” Journal of Ancient Judaism 2, no. 1 (2011): 208–238. Selim, Samah. “Politics of Piety: The Islamic Revival and the Feminist Subject.” Jadaliyya, October 13, 2010. https://www​.jadaliyya​.com​/Details​/23539. Shemer, Yaron. “Failing Intersectionality: Gender, Ethnicity, and Religious Traditions in Recent Israeli Films.” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 36, no. 5 (2019): 365–391. Socachevsky Bacon, Brenda. “How Shall We Tell the Story of Beruriah’s End?” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 5. Feeding an Identity: Gender, Food, and Survival (2002): 231–239. Stig Sørensen, Marie Louise. Gender Archaeology. Hoboken and West Sussex: John Wiley & Sons, 2000. Strassfeld, Max. “Classically Queer: Eunuchs and Endrogynes in Rabbinic Literature.” Ph.D. dissertation, Stanford University, 2013. Tickner, Lisa. Feminism, Art History, and Sexual Difference. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1988. Toor, Saadia. “Imperialist Feminism Redux.” Dialectical Anthropology 36, nos. 3–4 (2012): 147–160. van der Watt, Liese. “Do Bodies Matter? Performance versus Performativity.” de arte 70 (2004): 3–10. Weaver, Mary Jo. New Catholic Women: A Contemporary Challenge to Traditional Religious Authority. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995. White, Carolyn L. and Mary C. Beaudry. “Artifacts and Personal Identity.” In International Handbook of Historical Archaeology, edited by Teresita Majewski and David Gaimster, 209–225. New York: Springer, 2009. Whiting, Marlena. “Musings on Gender, Archaeology, and Pilgrimage in the Late Antique Near East.” HospitAm: Hospitalités dans l’Antiquité méditerranéenne: sources, enjeux, pratiques, discours. Uploaded 12/6/2018. https://hospitam​.hypotheses​.org​/1380. Wolkomir, Michelle. “‘Giving it up to God’: Negotiating Femininity in Support Groups for Wives of Ex-Gay Christian Men.” Gender and Society 18, no. 6 (2004): 735–755. Yadin, Yigael. Bar-Kokhba: The Rediscovery of the Legendary Hero of the Second Jewish Revolt Against Rome. New York: Random House, 1971. Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim. Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory. The Samuel and Althea Stroum Lectures in Jewish Studies. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1996. Zanker, Paul. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988. Zia, Afiya S. Faith and Feminism in Pakistan: Religious Agency or Secular Autonomy. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2018. Zion-Waldoks, Tanya. “Politics of Devoted Resistance: Agency, Feminism, and Religion among Orthodox Agunah Activities in Israel.” Gender and Society 29, no. 1 (2015): 73–97.

1

Social Skin in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine

Visible Identities? As one of the stipulations included in the first-century ketubah (marriage contract) of Babatha, signed by her husband Judah, son of El’azar Khthousion, the latter commits himself to provide a guaranteed financial settlement (the ketubah payment) in the event that the marriage ends by the death of the husband or divorce. The text reads, On the [thi]rd of Adar in the consulship of … [that you will be] my wife [according to the la]w of Moses and the ‘Judaeans’ and I will [feed you] and [clothe] you and I will bring you (into my house) by means of your ketubah.1 As his property, the husband is in charge of his wife’s “social skin.”2 Beyond this archaeological testimony, evidence for Jewish women’s dress codes, and how these relate to men’s imaginations is abundant.3 Indeed, biblical narratives and Talmudic discussions of women’s biological and socialized appearances are full of painfully intimate details. Yet the authors seem to be uniformly motivated by the preponderant desire to define women as wives and mothers (in other words according to their sexual and reproductive qualities). Visual and material culture—though not devoid of prevalent male biases—complement these often-tendentious writings and provide additional data on women’s socialized appearance. When brought into dialogue, these different sources produce a richly layered story of Jewish women’s appearance. Historian Shaye Cohen, in his analysis of rabbinic texts, questions the visibility of Jewish identity by asking, “How Do You Know a Jew in Antiquity When You See One?”4 As he considers the human body and apparel as prime identity markers—in addition to speech, names, and occupation—he concludes that “Jews and gentiles in antiquity were corporeally, visually, linguistically, and socially indistinguishable.”5 Despite his focus on visible characteristics, his inference, however, does not take into account the rich corpus of archaeological and iconographic material, data that provides additional perspectives on Jewish corporeality. Expanding on his methodological scope—by incorporating actual visual and material data—I am thus re-examining the question whether Jewish women looked the same as their gentile (pagan and Christian) neighbors. Or if instead they fashioned their appearance and thus identity in a noticeably distinct way. Beyond DOI:  10.4324/9781003440499-2

24  Social Skin this, I explore whether women’s social skin was clearly different from men’s, and if so, in what ways. Finally, I investigate whether there were options of dressing and undressing that blurred the boundaries of biological bodies and gender identities. Bringing the visual and material culture into dialogue with the textual sources clearly enhances, but also complicates, the picture of gendered dress (and undress) codes, suggesting countless options of deviating from the prescribed rabbinic standards. In some ways, archaeological remains of garments and accessories and iconographic renderings of Jewish women’s and men’s dress reinforce the conventions expressed in the literary sources (the Mishnah, the Palestinian and Babylonian Talmuds, the Dead Sea Scrolls and the books of Maccabees, passages by Philo and Josephus, as well as various brief references by non-Jewish authors). In other ways, however, the visual and material evidence of gendered apparel provides support for the by now long-established recognition of the heterogeneity of Jewish communities and the fact that the rabbis dictated at best to only a small coterie of adherents to “normative Judaism.”6 Whereas the textual sources represent the limited world of a literate male elite, the visual and material evidence reveals a broader spectrum of Jewish society, bringing women’s participation in historical fashioning and selffashioning into light. The Jews of Ancient Syro-Palestine My inquiry into Jewish women’s dress in Syro-Palestine spans the Roman (64 BCE–324 CE) and Byzantine (324–636 CE) periods, beginning with Roman general Pompey’s conquest of Judea and Syria in 64/63 BCE and ending with the Muslim conquest of the Levant during the first half of the seventh century CE.7 The Roman province of Judea encompassed the regions of Samaria and Idumea, and integrated parts of the former Hasmonean and Herodian kingdoms of Israel. Following the partition of the Herodian kingdom of Judea into tetrarchies in 6 CE, the Roman province of Syria was gradually absorbed into various other Roman provinces. As of 390 CE the larger region (including Palaestina Prima, Palaestina Secunda, Palaestina Tertia, Syria Prima, Phoenice, and Phoenice Lebanensis)—corresponding to modern-day Israel, the Palestinian territories Transjordan, Lebanon, and Syria—formed part of the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) diocese of the East.8 After the Romans brought Seleucid Syria under control and Pompey conquered Jerusalem, Judea became a vassal state of Rome. Though mostly tolerant toward the Jewish population, the latter organized two uprisings against the Romans: the First Jewish Revolt (66–70 CE) ending with the destruction of the First Jewish Temple, and the Second Jewish Revolt (132–135 CE), also known as the Bar Kokhba Revolt. When in 324 CE the Roman emperor Constantine extended his rule to the Eastern empire, encompassing the region of Syro-Palestine, Christianity became the official religion. While this put an end to the persecution of Christians, Jews continued to live under restrictions. Until about 200 CE, Jews represented the largest population among the Samaritan and pagan communities, with significantly higher concentrations in Judea than in Syria. Yet, as of the beginning of the Byzantine period (corresponding politically

Social Skin  25 to the disestablishment of Syria Palaestina), they constituted a minority living alongside Samaritans, pagans (mostly Greco-Syriacs), and Christians (predominantly converted pagans and Jews as well as Syriac Christians).9 Though Jews and Christians lived alongside each other in the larger cities, for most of Byzantine rule, towns and villages remained religiously and demographically more homogenous.10 In addition to Greek and Aramaic as the political and literary dominant languages, other languages spoken in the region included Hebrew, Latin, Nabataean, Phoenician, Proto-Arabic Thamudic, and Safaic, and later also Armenian and Georgian.11 Though communication choices differed according to social context and geographical environment, Hebrew served as the principal language for the written transmission of religiously relevant information, and thus largely excluded women.12 The linguistic diversity is representative of the region’s ethnic makeup integrating various levels of Roman and Hellenistic sociocultural components.13 The iconographic and archaeological data relevant to our inquiry underlines the religious ties and influences between the region’s Jewish communities and their non-Jewish neighbors, with unique Jewish traits slowly appearing during the Roman period and becoming fully distinct characteristics during the Byzantine era. Traditionally, scholars have used both the Jerusalem and the Babylonian Talmuds to examine ancient and late antique Jewish visual and material culture as a coherent corpus. More recently, however, differentiating between the GrecoRoman context of the Jerusalem/Palestinian Talmud versus the Sassanian context of the Babylonian version (and the emerging field of Irano-Talmudic studies) has nuanced the understanding of regionally distinct sociocultural characteristics.14 Without engaging textual variations and nuances and how they may or may not reflect different views on gendered bodies and dress codes, I will differentiate when possible between the Palestinian and the diasporic (Syrian) traditions, specifically as defined by visual and material culture. In making this distinction, however, I remain mindful of the gaps and potential biases in the available data. Numerous mosaic floors have been preserved in synagogues excavated in Israel-Palestine but appear in only one wall painting in a synagogue in Syria. Additionally, apparel, mostly made of organic materials, has survived in just a few exceptional contexts. While—or perhaps because—in both regions, Jews were politically subservient to Roman rule and law, it is during this period that Jewish identity crystallized, religiously and culturally. Beyond numerous distinct practices and beliefs, it is women’s and men’s social skin—their appearance and performance—that negotiated boundaries, both visible and invisible. Beyond the gendered and sexual distinctions, I will also explore the similarities and differences between Jewish and non-Jewish dress codes. Bodies: Naked and Dressed A long tradition of biblical exegesis understands the beginning of dress as a symbol of human shame and human honor, both anchored in the story of Adam and Eve (Genesis 3:7 and Genesis 3:21). Based on this premise, Benno Jacob defines the dress that covers the human body (Exodus 22:26) as a “second skin, a superior

26  Social Skin corporeality.”15 In regard to contemporary cultures—but equally relevant to ancient societies—anthropologist Terence Turner explains, [T]he skin (and hair) are the concrete boundary between the self and the other, the individual and society […] At one level, the ‘social skin’ models the social boundary between the individual actor and other actors […] and at the macro-social level ‘social skin’ [defines] not individuals, but categories or classes of individuals.16 Traditionally, scholars have emphasized the tangible demarcations separating Jews, pagans, and Christians in antiquity.17 Little attention has been paid to the study of the body. It was not until the 1990s that investigating Jewish bodies, women’s and men’s, through the lens of biblical and Talmudic literature, gained scholarly interest.18 In Carnal Israel, Daniel Boyarin argues that for rabbinic Jews, the human being was defined as a body—animated, to be sure, by a soul— while for Hellenistic Jews (such as Philo) and (at least many Greek-speaking) Christians (such as Paul), the essence of a human being is a soul housed in a body.19 Building on this approach of studying Jewish corporeal experiences, Shai Secunda suggests that the marked difference in attitude toward ideologies of sexuality and thus of the self and the collective (between Rabbinic Judaism and early Christianity), has inspired “talmudists to shift their gaze from matters of law, theology and the history of the rabbinic mind toward interpretation of the body, its carnality and its messiness.”20 Rabbinical perceptions of earlier scriptural legacies suggest an interesting development. The biblical narrative describes Adam and Eve as they came into the world: “The two of them were naked, the man and his wife, yet they felt no shame” (Genesis 2:25). The shame, and thus the necessity to cover their bodies, was a result of sin. While many scholars have reduced the rabbinic responses and discussions on covering exposed body parts to a simple and resolute rejection of nudity on moral grounds, recent studies have provided more refined literary, cultural, and artistic contexts for the rabbis’ complex and internally inconsistent views.21 Despite the general emphasis on modesty when writing about male and female bodies, rabbinic perceptions of nudity are full of interesting nuances. As Michael Poliakoff convincingly argues, an alternative reading of rabbinical texts shows that the rabbis in fact “celebrate and exalt the body.”22 Along similar lines, Michael Satlow contends that perceptions of nudity among rabbis are not necessarily to be understood as negative; they should be evaluated in light of social relations and hierarchies that existed among Jews, between Jews and gentiles, but also between humans in relation to God and the sancta.23 Notwithstanding the complexity of rabbis’ perceptions of nudity, the general assumption is that Jews would not walk around naked in public. Nudity, however, was clearly an integral and important feature of the Greco-Roman world.

Social Skin  27

Figure 1.1  Hall of Fountains, bathhouse at Hammath Gader, Roman-Byzantine period, Yarmouk River Valley, Israel. Photo by Avishai Teicher. Public Domain. https://commons​. wikimedia​. org​/ wiki​/ File​: PikiWiki​_ Israel​_ 13897​_ Hamat​ _Gader​_Roman​_baths​.JPG.

Therefore, it can be said that some variations regarding the exposure of bodies or body parts were not completely foreign in early Judaism.24 As Yaron Eliav has demonstrated (Figure 1.1), unlike the theater and the amphitheater—two GrecoRoman institutions rejected by Jews—“[T]he bath-house was an inseparable and fully legitimate constituent of Jewish life.”25 And yet, most Greeks and Romans would attend bathhouses undressed—at least in some of the spaces within them. While we know definitively that dozens of baths were built by Jews themselves, including those within the homogeneous Jewish settlements throughout Judea and Galilee; and while it seems reasonable to assume that some were decorated with statues, we don’t know whether these would have included representations of nudes. What appears to be certain, nevertheless, is that Jews, other than using their own bathhouses, also frequented those of their pagan and later Christian neighbors, buildings which were commonly decorated with statues of the naked or half-naked Greek goddess Aphrodite (Figure 1.2). Though some rabbis considered it inappropriate to be exposed to these undressed figures, others were less concerned about their presence.26 It remains unclear whether Jews, like most of their gentile neighbors, were naked when going to the bath; whether they designated different hours of use for women and men or assigned separate chambers to them; or, whether they found

28  Social Skin

Figure 1.2  Statue of Aphrodite, Beth Shean, second century CE, Israel. Photo by Ardon Bar-Hama. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. https://www​.imj​.org​.il​/ en​/collections​/396698​-0.

ways to avoid nudity, and were instead partly or even fully covered.27 In other words, the attitudes of Jews toward nudity may not have been that different from those of their non-Jewish neighbors. This conclusion can be supported by ample visual and material data. Iconographic evidence of nude bodies in Jewish contexts comes primarily from synagogues, and to a more limited extent from burial sites. In Palestine, examples of figural representations include the fourth-century mosaic pavement of the Hammath Tiberias synagogue (Figure 1.3). Here, among the commonly centrally positioned zodiac signs, appear the male nudes of Libra (Moznaim; Figure 1.4) and Aquarius (Dli), with their private parts visibly exposed. Another case in point is the late second- and early third-century Leda and the Swan sarcophagus at Beth Shearim (Figure 1.5), where the undressed Leda is coupling with Zeus, the latter turned into a swan.28 Though the imagery is taken from well-established pagan personifications and mythological figures, their juxtaposition with typical Jewish symbols—at Hammath Tiberias the Torah Ark and other ritual objects, and at Beth Shearim multiple representations of menoroth (seven-branched candelabra) on burial walls and coffins—indicates they were not perceived to be offensive. Indeed, both examples suggest that these images were part of an established iconography prevalent in Jewish settings. And these sites were clearly not associated with marginalized Jewish communities. Tiberias, along

Social Skin  29

Figure 1.3  Aerial view showing part of the central nave mosaic floor of the Hammath Tiberas synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Figure 1.4  Zodiac mosaic featuring Libra, Hammath Tiberias synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

30  Social Skin

Figure 1.5  Leda and the Swan sarcophagus, Beth Shearim, early third century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. https:// commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Leda​_and​_the​_Swan_-​_Beit​_Shearim​.jpg.

with Lydda, Sepphoris, and Caesarea, was one of the primary centers of scholarly production linked to the Palestinian rabbis, while Beth Shearim served as the main Jewish burial site other than Jerusalem.29 The primary example of nude imagery outside of Palestine is provided by the wall paintings of the third-century CE synagogue of Dura Europos (Figure 1.6), a frontier town between the old established Roman and Parthian (later Sasanian) empires.30 Located on the west bank of the Euphrates River (within southeastern Syria), the painted mural or fresco (tempera on plaster) represents the most extensive surviving example of a Jewish pictorial narrative anchored in the biblical text and arguably reflects the perspective of the later rabbinical traditions (the Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmuds).31 As in the Palestinian context, here too, some of the figurative scenes, which cover all four walls of the main prayer hall, include nude bodies. Among these, the fresco “Pharaoh’s Daughter”, depicts her as she rises from the Nile. She is nude, with her pudenda clearly visible (Figure 1.7).32 Another example is the Egyptians shown in the “Moses Leading the Migrations from Egypt” scene. The hosts, as described in the biblical text, are shown armed; the Egyptians, not unlike how they were imagined in the rabbinical interpretations (Esther Rabbah 3:14; Eliyahu Rabbah 1:2), are featured naked.33 Further representations of nudity appear on the two central doors of the “Closed Temple” panel. Here, a nude male

Social Skin  31

Figure 1.6  Western wall of Dura Europos synagogue with torah niche. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Dara​ _Europos​_replica​.jpg.

Figure 1.7  Pharaoh’s Daughter drawing Moses from the Nile, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain.

is framed by two smaller nudes, one female, the other, male, possibly representing Jupiter, Liber, or Serapis in the company of the young Dioscuri.34 Beyond the public realm, it is difficult to determine if nude imagery was present in domestic areas identified as clearly Jewish. In residential complexes that with certainty were inhabited by Jews—usually based on inference from literary sources and/or the presence of a nearby synagogue, miqva’ot, or Jewish symbols on walls or floors, architectural details, or oil lamps—no elaborate figural scenes have been found. Whether wall paintings or mosaic floors featuring mythological scenes—including

32  Social Skin

Figure 1.8  Dionysus Mosaic depicting scenes from the life of Dionysus in Roman villa triclinium, around 200 CE, Sepphoris, Israel. Courtesy of Livius.

nude figures—found within some of the more lavish villas belonged to Jews is difficult to establish with certitude. Not all dwellings had distinguishing Jewish markers, and some or even most Jews had entirely adopted their gentile neighbors’ lifestyles and tastes. Even, for instance, the question of whether the proprietor and inhabitants of the third-century CE Roman villa at Sepphoris, which includes a number of nudes on its Dionysus mosaic (Figure 1.8), were Jewish, has remained an unsolved riddle despite the presence of a small miqveh within the buildings’ confines.35 It appears thus, that despite the prevalent concern for modesty in rabbinic literature, nudity was featured in spaces and buildings associated with Jews, possibly more commonly in the diaspora than in Palestine. While all of these depictions are limited to pagan personifications as well as to mythological and biblical figures, none of the nudes seem to represent contemporary Jewish figures.36 Furthermore, no evidence of three-dimensional statues, whether dressed or undressed, has been uncovered in buildings or sites associated with Jewish communities. Jewish bodies, however, specifically women’s, were not any different from the bodies of their gentile neighbors. In contrast, Jewish men’s bodies, when undressed, were more visibly distinct, specifically among non-circumcised communities.37 Yet, it is unlikely that Jews, like most of their contemporaries, would walk around naked outside of their intimate domestic spheres (except for possibly in the bathhouses). Despite the avoidance (likely not coincidental) of featuring nude Israelite or Jewish figures in synagogues and other public spaces, Jews’ relation to their bodies, in particular their undressed bodies, was not so very different from the way pagans

Social Skin  33 and Christians related to their bodies; at least not in any obvious or clearly visible way that would affect their daily lives. Apparel and Accessories In his paper “Clothes Make the (Wo)Man,” Roy Jeal writes: Clothing is a powerful image throughout biblical literature and in human society generally. At the most obvious level, clothing covers and conceals the body, protecting it from exposure to the elements and the view of other persons. But the significance of clothing extends much further since garments not only cover and conceal, but also function to display the body in particular ways and with many meanings. […] Clothing is a feature of the body’s shapes and actions that are offered for view and that differentiate people from one another.38 Yet, as mentioned above, Jewish women and men, especially when dressed, are not distinguishable visibly from their pagan and Christian neighbors. A more detailed analysis of the relevant visual and material evidence, along with some literary references, however, will broaden our understanding of apparel as a marker that creates an interesting dialogue between individual and community, while negotiating visible with invisible identity markers. Archaeological remains—primarily retrieved from burials and domestic caves in the Dead Sea region and the Syrian desert—include objects made of organic materials, such as sandals, garment fragments, hairpieces, and hairnets, as well as accessories, including jewelry and other decorative items, most commonly made of metal, or occasionally stone or bone. Iconographic sources, similar to the portrayals of nudes, come mainly from synagogue mosaic floors, funerary reliefs, and coins (Palestine), or from synagogue wall paintings (Syria). Other than a few general remarks on the actual processes related to the production of clothing, this survey is organized around specific types of garments and accessories used to cover, dress, and adorn the human body. Rabbinic literature from the Roman and Byzantine periods includes numerous references to clothing, such as the names of specific garments and accessories, the way they were worn, the methods used in their production, and religious laws pertaining to making and wearing them. Like their pagan and Christian counterparts, rabbis were primarily concerned with ethical dimensions of dress codes, though they occasionally addressed practical matters. References in early Christian literature to specifically Jewish costumes are limited and not very helpful, such as Mark (9:3) who writes about Jesus during the Transfiguration, stating “his clothes turned dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them.” Another reference to Jewish costume comes from Paul, who asks his followers to bring his cloak (paenula) to him (II Timothy 4:13). Most rabbinic sources are more detailed, including one that lists clothing items that are almost all transliterations of Greek and Latin words:

34  Social Skin Rabbi Yosei says: One may wear only eighteen, and these are the eighteen garments: A cloak [miktoren], a cape [unkali], a broad garment worn on one’s shoulders, and a large hollow belt worn over the clothes, a wide linen garment [kalbus], and a robe worn against the skin, a robe wrapped above, and a kerchief on one’s head, and two straps, i.e., belts, two shoes, and two socks [ampilaot], and two tall boots [pargod], and a belt around one’s loins over the robe, and a hat on one’s head, and a scarf around one’s neck (B. Shabbat 120a).39 According to another passage, it appears that one would follow a certain sequence when taking off (and possibly putting on) clothes. In Tosefta Derekh Eretz (Perek Ha-Niknas 1) it is written, “On entering the bathhouse, what is the order of procedure? First, he removes his shoes, then that hat, then his shirt [haluq], and after that he unties the striped garment [epikarsion] of the underclothes.”40 From several ancient and late antique texts, we learn that weaving and dyeing were considered typical Jewish crafts. Within Palestine, a number of centers of weaving and dyeing are documented, including the towns of Sarepta, Neapolis, Lydda, Arbela, and specifically Beth Shean.41 Purportedly, in Kfar Namra alone there were three hundred weaving shops.42 Several ancient authors mention the superior quality of fabrics woven in Palestine. Clement of Alexandria, for instance, regrets that cloth from “the land of the Jews” was favored over the poor quality of clothes made in Egypt. Pausanias, however, observes that “for its fineness Elean linen flax is just as good as Jewish, though not so tawny.”43 Though Jews seemed to dress just like their gentile neighbors, there were aspects that lent their garments unique qualities. One concerned the law of sha’atnez and the other the law of tzitzit. Both rulings are anchored in the biblical injunctions, with sha’atnez concerning the prohibition of mixing different fibers, and tzitzit requiring the application of tassels or fringes on the mantles worn by men. In Deuteronomy 22:11–12 we read, “You shall not wear clothes combining wool and linen. You shall make tassels [tzizit] on the four corners of the garment with which you cover yourself.”44 The adjacency of the negative prohibition against sha’atnez and the positive commandment of tzitzit is mentioned in the Talmud (B. Yevamot 4a; Nazir 41b–41a). Archaeological remains of Roman and Byzantine period apparel associated with Jewish communities—since mostly made from organic and thus perishable substances—have only survived in extremely dry desert regions, including in the Negev, Judea, the Arava, and eastern Syria. While the majority of these discoveries have not been published, the few that have been scientifically processed allow us to make several important observations.45 None of these carefully examined materials associated with Jewish communities in Palestine comprise mixed fabrics of wool and linen, unlike clothes fragments not linked to Jews from sites throughout the Middle East.46 This can be supported by samples found in the caves of Wadi Murabba’at, of Wadi Dalia, in the Cave of Letters at Nahal Hever, in the Abior Cave near Jericho, and at Masada, all of which were analyzed and published. Most of these documented fragments appear to be associated with the Jewish refugees

Social Skin  35 of the Bar Kokhba Revolt (132–135 CE).47 More difficult to establish archaeologically is the distinction Flavius Josephus makes regarding clothes that identify specific Jewish sects. He remarks that “unlike the other Jews of Roman Judaea, who seem to have dressed mainly or entirely in wool, Essene men wore only linen garments.”48 Yadin explains the lack of tassels or fringes (tzitzit) attached to the clothes he uncovered as proof that they were removed before burial.49 Regarding the question of the tassels’ visibility, Cohen purports that these in all likelihood—when indeed worn by Jewish men as dictated by the rabbis—would not have been visible.50 According to him, they could have been easily tucked away and hidden underneath the robes. But even those few who followed the strictures imposed by the rabbis would not necessarily don these distinct markers of identity. Cohen specifies that in fact those who “wore togas and two other specific forms of Roman (Greek?) clothing were exempt from the commandment of tzitzit.”51 In other words, there was nothing distinctive in the dress of most Jewish men, including the few who adhered to the rabbinic parameters. As a general rule, both women and men, Jewish and non-Jewish, wore an undergarment and an overgarment. The undergarment, or tunic, referred to as haluk in rabbinic literature (known as tunica among the Romans and as chiton among the Greeks), was worn directly on the body; the overgarment, a cloak or mantle, termed tallit in Hebrew (the Roman pallium or palla or the Greek himation) was draped and fastened over this first layer of fabric.52 Tunics came in a variety of lengths and could be sleeved or sleeveless. Considered a tailored item, it was typically made of two rectangular pieces of fabric sewn together on the sides.53 The tallit instead was usually rectangular in shape and would simply be draped, tied, or fastened over the tunic. As indicated in both texts and visual representations, tunics were either white or colored (Genesis 37; Exodus 28:5–8, 28; Ezekiel 29:24; B Shabbat 16:4), the typical Roman version being more often white and the Greek and Eastern ones predominantly colored and patterned.54 Tunics of the Roman period are generally marked with narrow stripes descending from the shoulders. Called clavi in Latin, they are known to signal the societal position of the wearer, the broader ones usually signaling senatorial ranks or upper officials and the narrowest appearing on tunics of boys. Identified with the Talmudic term ‘imrah, the texts seem to suggest, that even when a tunic was defective, the ‘imrahs could be detached and reused.55 Most of the tunics found in the Cave of Letters are decorated with narrow or medium-width clavi, for which a different kind of wool was used.56 Depictions of men wearing a tunic include the “Sacrifice of Isaac” featured on the sixth-century Beth Alpha synagogue mosaic (Figure 1.9), where Abraham is shown in a long white garment, the so-called tunica talaris (an ankle-length tunic), decorated with black clavi, a horizontal black band below the knee, and black-striped wristbands.57 Another depiction of short tunics appear on the fourth-century House of Orpheus mosaic at Sepphoris (Figure 1.10). More commonly depicted on mosaic floors in Palestine than in other parts of the Roman Empire, are men wearing a tunica manicata (a short long-sleeved

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Figure 1.9  Sacrifice of Isaac panel, Beit Alpha Synagogue mosaic, sixth century CE, Israel. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:The​_sacrifice​_of​ _Isaac​_Beit​_Alfa​.png.

tunic) or a colobium (a sleeveless or short-sleeved tunic). The tunica manicata is regularly associated with soldiers, riders, laborers, or hunters, as well as with biblical and mythological figures.58 One representative example is a scene on the late third-, early fourth-century synagogue mosaic at Khirbet Wadi Hammam depicting a figure commonly identified as Samson standing alongside several soldiers (Figure 1.11). Samson the giant wears a yellowish-green tunic decorated with segmenta (a type of armor consisting of metal strips fashioned into circular bands). The soldiers also wear colored tunics, one yellowish-green, the other red, bordered with brown and a central yellow fold, and a third one green, also bordered with brown.59 A good illustration of the colobium can be seen on a panel in the fourth-century CE Sepphoris villa mosaic showing participants in a drinking scene, although the context or owner cannot be confirmed as Jewish with certainty.60 Women featured on mosaics in Palestine all wear the long tunic, as do freed or freeborn girls.61 Examples encompass those with long, close-fitting sleeves, including the Virgos (Betuloth) on the Hammath Tiberias and the Beth Alpha synagogue floor mosaics. At Hammath Tiberias the Virgo (Betulah; Figure 1.12) wears a reddish-orange colored tunic with dark blue clavi and folds highlighted with black lines. A long palla in shades of gray, light blue, and white falls over her back and left shoulder and is wrapped around her head and right hand.62 The tunic of the Virgo at Beth Alpha is reddish-orange (Figure 1.13), decorated with brownishpurple clavi ending in segmenta roundels and including a small golden triangle in the center of the neckline, with sleeves trimmed with gold and brown cuffs.63 A similar tunic in orange, yellow, and brown is worn by the personification of the season of Spring (Nissan) in the fifth- to sixth-century CE Na’aran synagogue.

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Figure 1.10  Two men wearing tunics with clavi, House of Orpheus, Sepphoris, fourth century CE, Israel. Photo by Carole Raddato. Public Domain. https://commons​ .wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Panel​_depicting​_a​_two​_men​_embracing,​_T​-shaped​ _mosaic​_in​_the​_triclinium​_of​_The​_House​_of​_Orpheus​_containing​_four​ _panels​_arranged​_for​_viewing​_from​_the​_south,​_Sepphoris_​%28Diocaesarea​ %29,​_Israel_​%2815667178389​%29​.jpg.

Some female figures, including in synagogues throughout Palestine, are shown with long sleeveless tunics, among them the season of Autumn (Tishrei)—the Na’aran synagogue once again providing a good example. The tunic decorated with yellowish orange and brownish red stripes, is fastened at the shoulder with a fibula (a brooch or clasp mostly used to fasten items of clothing); a ribbon serves as a belt, gathering the fabric underneath the bosom. Other sleeveless tunics worn by female figures (Figure 1.14) show only the busts and heads of the figures. Illustrations comprise personifications of all four seasons (Spring/Nissan, Summer/Tammuz, Autumn/Tishrei, and Winter/Tevet) at the synagogues of Beth Alpha, Hammath Tiberias, and Sepphoris. The chiton, a Greek-style tunic, which could be either sleeveless or with long sleeves fastened with a number of pins, was worn by both women and men. It was sometimes made of one rectangular piece of cloth draped around the body and sewn up on the sides, or alternatively, it was made of two pieces joined with buttons or pins over one or both shoulders.64 Visible for instance on the fifth-century CE Nile mosaic at Sepphoris, we see three dancing Amazons clothed in short, sleeveless

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Figure 1.11  Samson standing alongside several soldiers, Khirbet Wadi Hammam synagogue mosaic, late third/early fourth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gaby Laron. Courtesy of Uzi Leibner, The Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Figure 1.12  Zodiac mosaic featuring Virgo, Hammath Tiberias synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

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Figure 1.13  Zodiac mosaic featuring Virgo, Beit Alpha synagogue, sixth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Figure 1.14  Zodiac mosaic featuring Spring, Hammath Tiberias synagogue, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

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Figure 1.15  Three dancing, bare-breasted Amazons, Nile House mosaic, Sepphoris, fifth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gabi Laron. Courtesy of Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Excavations, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​ /wiki​/File​:Sepphoris_(Diocaesarea),_Israel_(16457085051).jpg.

chitons, folded and fastened over the left shoulder and held in place with a short strap (Figure 1.15). Some of the dancers’ breasts are exposed. No such depiction unambiguously associated with Jewish owners, however, has been uncovered. Different kinds of overgarments were usually worn over the tunic. The kneelong chlamys was mostly, but not exclusively, worn by men, conventionally soldiers, hunters, and shepherds.65 On the Sepphoris synagogue mosaic, several personifications are dressed in a chlamys. Libra’s (Tishrei’s) chlamys is dark-gray and reddish-brown and drapes over his right shoulder down to the waist, where it is gathered around the left arm, falling down loosely and covering his back. Aries (Nisan) wears a white chlamys, while both Scorpio (Heshvan) and Pisces (Adar) are featured with a gray-brown version highlighted by mustard-yellow borders. Both chlamydes are fastened with a fibula.66 Another type of overgarment is the pallium, although often worn with no undergarment. Derived from the Greek himation, it was worn by men, women, and children and is made of a long piece of fabric wrapped around the body, arms, shoulders, and neck in different ways. On the sixth-century CE Huseifa synagogue floor, we see Sagittarius (Kislev) wearing a yellow pallium over his shoulder. On the so-called sixth-century CE House of Leontis synagogue mosaic in Beth Shean, contemporary with the Huseifa synagogue, a personification of the Nile appears with a gray pallium falling over his left arm that drapes down over his feet.

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Figure 1.16  Wedding of Dionysus with Ariadne, in villa triclinium, around 200 CE, Sepphoris, Israel. Photo by Omer Golan. Public Domain. https://commons​ .wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:DionysusRomanVila​.JPG.

The palla worn by women was a rectangular robe which covered the head and the body from the shoulders to the knees or ankles. The hem was mostly thrown over the left shoulder and was either pinned with a fibula or held in one hand.67 The palla existed in different sizes, colors, and fabrics. It could protect from bad weather and occasionally served as a blanket for sleeping. Illustrations are found at the Hammath Tiberias synagogue, where Autumn is dressed in a gray, lightblue, and white palla. It falls over her left shoulder and is wrapped around her back and upper torso, covering her head and draping around her right hand.68 The personification of Winter, on the other hand, is dressed in a white, light-blue, and green palla with black lines indicating the folds of the fabric. On the Sepphoris synagogue mosaic, we see another personification of Winter similarly dressed in a brown-and-gray palla draped over her head, with loose, concave gray-and-white folds highlighted in black.69 Garments typically worn by men on the lower torso and legs could be a sarong or skirt such as the one seen on the third-century CE Dionysus mosaic at Sepphoris (Figure 1.16).70 Trousers are described in Exodus (28:42), where we read, “Make linen trousers as a covering for the body, reaching from the waist to the thigh.” Later Jewish sources refer to them as savricin and avricin, visible in various panels of the Dura Europos synagogue.71 These include depictions of soldiers, a number of figures in the royal Persian court, and King David. Evocative of trousers associated with Eastern fashions, the so-called anaxyrides, made of leather or wool, are mentioned by Xenophon and Euripides.72 More commonly though, men, like women, wear robes, dresses, and mantles, with the only distinguishing characteristic being the difference in length; the shorter versions are usually associated with men and children, and the ankle- or floor-length versions with women. In antiquity, shoes were thought of as valuable objects, and it was common to own no more than a single pair. Slaves, workers, and poor people frequently went barefoot as, for instance, visible on a fragment of the late third-/early fourth-century CE Khirbet Wadi Hammam synagogue floor, where all laborers are seen without shoes.73 While the rabbinic literature only mentions two kinds of footwear—closed shoes and sandals—Roman sources reference many more kinds of shoes ranging

42  Social Skin in material, quality, color, and style. Despite the warm climate in Syro-Palestine, the iconographic evidence seems to suggest that both women and men wore sandals (soleae) as commonly as they wore shoes or boots (calcei).74 Actual remains of leather sandals were uncovered in a basket in the Cave of Letters.75 Similar to modern flipflops, the typical Roman sandal separated the first and second toes, and was attached to the foot with leather straps. Iconographic representations are sometimes difficult to read. On the Sacrifice of Abraham mosaic panel at the Beth Alpha synagogue, for instance, the feet of Isaac and Abraham are simply outlined with a thickened black line, suggesting that they were not barefoot (Figure 1.9).76 Equally hard to identify is the footwear of Esther on the Dura Europos fresco, which could be construed as either sandals, shoes, or boots. While most men on the Dura Europos synagogue frescoes wear sandals, most women are shown with boots (Figure 1.7 and Figure 1.17). On the zodiac of the Beth Alpha mosaic, the three men who embody the months of Gemini (Teumim) and Sagittarius (Keshet) all wear shoes, whereas Libra (Mosnaim), on the same panel, is depicted with boots, similar to the men visible on the Khirbet Wadi Hammam synagogue mosaic (Figure 1.11). Though women’s feet are not always shown, either because only their bust is featured or their feet are hidden by a long dress, they too are sometimes shown barefoot, or wearing instead either sandals, shoes, or boots. On the Pharaoh’s Daughter panel at Dura Europos (Figure 1.7), the women are depicted with black boots, while on the Beth Alpha synagogue zodiac, the Virgo (Figure 1.13) appears to be barefoot. Rabbinic texts mention anpili/anpilei, socks made of fabric or leather.77 Other than a firstcentury CE child’s sock made from linen (the only known one from linen) found at Masada, a number of illustrations as well as other contemporary texts indicate that these were commonly worn with sandals, shoes, and boots.78 The more limited number of sandals fastened with nails found at sites associated with Jews, as opposed to sites identified with Romans or Christians, has been linked to the Mishnaic prohibition on wearing sandals with nails on Shabbat (M. Shabbat 6:2; but see Y. Shabbat 6:2, 8a; B. Shabbat 60a).79 Rabbinic texts refer to

Figure 1.17  The Purim triumph with Queen Esther, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain.

Social Skin  43 nailed shoes as minal mesumar, or alternatively as kilgasim or golgusim, which are closer to the Latin word caliga, the heavy-soled hobnailed military boots.80 Sandals and shoes are also mentioned in relation to a ceremony called halitzah, anchored in the biblical tradition (Deuteronomy 25:5–10), in which a childless widow is exempted from levirate marriage (wherein her brother-in-law must marry her to give her a child in his brother’s name). The ritual consists of the widow loosening her brother-in-law’s shoe and spitting on the ground in front of him to indicate her disgust with his refusal to marry her. Rabbinic rulings (M. Yeb. 12:1) specify the kind of sandals and shoes that are valid for the ceremony.81 Hairstyles and head covers distinguish women from men in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine—more so than many clothes items that appear to be unisex. But, like the general garment options, the way Jews fashioned their hair and head covering did not make them stand out from their pagan and Christian neighbors. Girls and women, gentile and Jewish, usually kept their hair long, unlike men. A few exceptional cases are mentioned in the sources, such as Rachel, Rabbi Akiva’s wife, who cut off her braids to support her husband, enabling him to study, or the wife of Job, who let Satan shear off her hair to pay for three loaves of bread.82 Men, like women, liked their hair to be neat, especially for the occasion of Shabbat or for festivals. Literary sources describe how men styled, cut, trimmed, plucked, and shaved their hair, either at home or at the barbershop.83 Depilation is usually mentioned in reference to women only, who would regularly shave pubic or underarm hair.84 While men paid attention to their hair and its styling, women’s preparations were far more elaborate. These efforts, if excessive, were commonly criticized.85 Some could afford a slave or a servant to assist with the task; others would rely on a professional hairdresser or ornatrix. Girls usually had simpler hairstyles than women, with their hair worn loose, straightened, curled, colored, braided, or assembled into buns.86 Upper-class women frequently had highly intricate hairdos, framing and towering on their heads, aspiring to imitate the hairstyles of the ruling elite. Like girls, women would often braid their hair and then tie it in the back or middle of the head. In a haggadic midrash the tying of braided hair in the back is equated with a “jewel” (Shir-ha-Shirim Rabbah 4:1). We also learn that women could braid their own hair or have it braided by another woman (T. Shabbat 9:13).87 Remains of both men’s and women’s hair have come to light in archaeological excavations. A sample of male hair, less than 10 centimeters long, lice-free, and evenly cut, was uncovered in the first-century CE Tomb of the Shroud outside of Jerusalem’s Old City.88 The braided plaits of a woman from around the same time period were found at Masada (Figure 1.18).89 Women’s hair, like girls’, could be attached by and decorated with pins, ribbons, strings, hairbands, and even jewelry. The concern in the Mishnaic and Talmudic literature was mostly the washing and combing of hair prior to ritual immersion and whether one could apply or don a certain accessory on Shabbat.90 Numerous options for covering hair are described in the texts and illustrated in visual and material culture. According to Leila Leah Bronner, hair covering

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Figure 1.18  Braids of hair, Northern Palace, Masada, 73 CE, Israel. Photo by Vladimir Naikhin. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. https://www​.imj​.org​.il​/en​ /collections​/549805​-0.

for Jewish women was a development of rabbinic times, in contrast to the biblical period.91 While the Mishnah considers hair covering a Torah-derived law, the Talmud claims a biblical foundation for the practice.92 Thus it is only in classical rabbinic literature, namely the Talmud and the Midrash, that hair covering evolved beyond a fashion or tradition, to be subject to rules and regulations. While most women in the Western Roman world seem to have preferred not to cover their hair during the first centuries CE, during late antiquity, wearing veils in public seems to have become more common.93 In contrast, most women in the ancient Near East, including Jewish women in Syro-Palestine, veiled themselves when they went outside. Since most figural representations from Jewish contexts date from late antiquity, we have no iconographic support for the claim that Jewish women always covered their hair or that they did so when the first rabbinic rulings were formulated. Women could simply cover their head with the palla or a hood (cucullus), or crown it with a turban (mitra). Alternatively, they could use a hairnet or an infula (a type of ritual headband) to hold their hair together.94 Caps or bonnets, defined as kippahs in the Mishnah (M. Zavim 4:1), were considered generic hair covers, distinguished from scarves (sudarin; B. Sotah 49b), or falls and wigs (M. Shabbat. 6:1, 5; B. Nazir 28b; B. Arakhin 7b; Y. Shabbat 6:1, 7d). Men, unlike women in Syro-Palestine, were mostly bareheaded.95 In Babylonia, in contrast to Palestine, however, some Jewish men seem to have covered their heads as well (B. Nedarim 30b). Rav Huna, for instance, is said to have never appeared bareheaded (B. Qiddushin 31a; B. Shabbat 118b), and R. Nachman bar Yitzhaq’s mother made

Social Skin  45 sure that his head was always covered to show proper humility before God (B. Shabbat 156b).96 Other sources suggest that men covered their heads on special occasions, including while mourning (B. Mo’ed Qatan 24a), when raising their glass for a blessing (b. Ber. 51a), or when paying their respects to an important person (B. Qiddushin 8a, 29b). B. Pesahim 111b mentions a sudar (a piece of cloth or scarf) worn by sages. Shaye Cohen and Joshua Schwartz, referencing rabbinic writings and other contemporary sources, conclude that Jews, both male and female, could not be recognized by their hairstyles and hair covering and that they looked just like their gentile neighbors.97 Valerius Maximus, for instance, the first-century CE Latin author, states that veiling was not reserved for Jewish women, describing “the frightful marital severity of Sulpicius Gallus, who dismissed his wife, because, as he learned, she had gone about in public unveiled” (6.3.10).98 Similarly for Christian women, veiling was considered a sign of modesty and thus encouraged. In I Corinthians (11:5–6), a Pauline epistle of the New Testament from around the same period, we read that a woman, on the contrary, brings shame on her head if she prays or prophesies bareheaded; it is as bad as if her head was shaved. If a woman is not to wear a veil she might as well have her hair cut off; but if it is a disgrace for her to be cropped and shaved, then she should wear a veil.99 Tertullian, who lived in Carthage at the end of the second century CE, disputes the conclusion that all women, regardless of religious identity, looked the same; he describes Jewish women as easily recognizable because they wore veils in public.100 Actual remains of hair covers and accessories are difficult to identify in the archaeological record. Among the rare items are several hairnets found in the Judean Desert Cave of Letters, in the Cave of Horror at Masada, and possibly at Wadi Murabba’at.101 A number of woolen fragments uncovered at these sites were identified as headscarves.102 Iconographic renderings complement these findings. Only a few women are shown bareheaded. These include for instance the figure standing behind Queen Esther in the Dura Europos fresco (Figure 1.17). Most other women in these synagogue wall paintings have their heads covered by their mantles (Figure 1.7), in nearly all cases with their long hair plainly visible. Queen Esther (Figure 1.17) wears a veil falling from the top of her head behind her neck and back.103 Her fully styled hair, straightened but curled at the shoulder, frames her face. Numerous possibilities for dressing or styling heads and hair for female personifications of the months and seasons appear on synagogue mosaic floors in Palestine. Often these show women with braided hair piled up in a bun on top of their heads; others are more elaborate. The hair of the personification of Spring at the Sepphoris synagogue (Figure 1.19) is held together with a ribbon and possibly a net. The hair of Autumn, and perhaps of the other seasons at the Beth Alpha synagogue, is more clearly gathered in a net. Summer at the Hammath Tiberias synagogue is crowned with a wreath decorated with eight ears of corn (Figure 1.20). Finally, Winter on the Sepphoris

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Figure 1.19  Personification of Spring, Sepphoris synagogue mosaic, sixth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gabi Laron. Courtesy of Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Excavations, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. https://pl​.m​.wikipedia​.org​/wiki​ /Plik​:Sepphoris_​%28Tzippori​%29​_290314​_14​.jpg.

Figure 1.20  Personification of Summer, Hammath Tiberias synagogue mosaic, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Hamat​-Tiberias​-140​.jpg.

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Figure 1.21  Personification of Winter, Sepphoris synagogue mosaic, sixth century CE, Israel. Photo by Gabi Laron. Courtesy of Zeev Weiss, The Sepphoris Excavations, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

zodiac is shown wearing a mantel that completely envelops her head, hiding every strand of hair (Figure 1.21). In rabbinic sources, the terms sudarin, sadin, and radid are used to describe various types of head coverings. The iconographic evidence thus suggests that while most women covered their heads, in almost all cases their hair was partially or fully visible, with much attention to hairstyle and accessories. During the early Roman period, an era for which we lack iconographic evidence from synagogue art, there may well have been more leniency regarding head coverings for most Roman women, which likely would have been true of Jewish women as well. Accessories such as jewelry, hairbands, pins, and needles enhanced the look of clothes and occasionally fulfilled practical functions as well. Textual, archaeological, and iconographic sources complement each other and confirm that, similar to other apparel, Jewish fashions rarely diverged from pagan and Christian customs. While greater varieties of accessories, including jewelry, are associated with women, men and children also used them. In Talmudic literature, cosmetic and hair accessories are thought of as jewelry items.104 The most common accessories include fibulae, diadems, head and neck ornaments, hair bands and pins, arm and wrist bands, bracelets, finger and nose rings, and earrings. Gold jewelry, more than any other type of jewelry in Roman-Byzantine SyroPalestine, exemplifies the typical fusion of Western and Eastern techniques and

48  Social Skin styles prevalent in other regions of the ancient and late antique Near East.105 Gold rings, mostly signet intaglio types, were worn by Jews, Christians, and pagans. Other metals commonly employed for jewelry as well as pins and fibulae include bronze and iron.106 Silver was only rarely used in Syro-Palestine.107 Bracelets, finger rings, and earrings, frequently made of glass, were usually produced in one piece. Occasionally, glass beads or pendants were attached to metal (Figure 1.20).108 Polychromatic arrangements combining metals with glass, pearls, or gemstones became increasingly popular during the Roman and Byzantine periods. The variety of necklace, brooch, and earring designs is almost endless. Gems for rings were often engraved and used as seals.109 Other than metal, some hairpins were made of bone.110 Beyond the archaeological context or findspot, there is little that would betray the religious identity of the person who wore a specific jewelry item. An exception is the menorah (seven-branched candelabra), which is featured only on a few pieces, most commonly glass pendants (Figure 1.22).111 The most conventional accessory worn by men is the fibula, which was usually placed over the right shoulder. Most fibulae found in archaeological contexts in Syro-Palestine are modest in size and were thus likely used for garments made of thin fabrics, as woolen clothes would have required larger clasps. Plate fibulae are typically only associated with women (Figure 1.23).

Figure 1.22  Glass pendant decorated with a menorah, shofar, lulav, and etrog, Byzantine period, Jerusalem. Courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. https://www​.imj​ .org​.il​/en​/collections​/537097​-0.

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Figure 1.23  Personification of Autumn, Hammath Tiberias synagogue mosaic, fourth century CE, Israel. Courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

When depicted on mosaics, they tend to be featured in color. The tunic of the Sun God at the Hammath Tiberias synagogue, for instance, is clasped with a polychrome fibula. While numerous hairpins and finger and nose rings have survived in the archaeological record, no relevant iconographic sources exist to make a detailed analysis possible. Representations on synagogue walls and floors of head and neck ornaments, arm and wrist bands, bracelets, and earrings, in contrast, add to the knowledge we have derived from texts and actual accessories retrieved from primarily domestic and burial contexts. Other than mantles, veils, or scarves, which can partially or fully cover hair—in most cases women’s hair—men and women could wear various head and neck accessories. Depending on style, they usually signify class, status, and gender positions. Walled crowns, or crowns resembling battlements, most commonly appear on the heads of city goddesses. The royal character of King David on the early sixth-century CE Gaza synagogue mosaic (Figure 1.24), can be recognized other than by the inscription near his head, thanks to his crown. Another widespread head ornament is the wreath, featured for instance as an ornament worn by the personifications of the seasons at the synagogue of Hammath Tiberias or by the figure identified as Happiness at the Sepphoris synagogue. Wreaths appear to be made of plants and incorporate leaves, flowers, or fruit. Biblical references to head ornaments—including a crown (keter) or diadem (atara)—suggest that both women and men could wear them, generally on the occasion of public festivals. Talmudic texts mention gilded or silver-gilt wreaths

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Figure 1.24  King David playing the harp, synagogue of Gaza, sixth century CE. Photo by Avishai Teicher. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​ :PikiWiki​_Israel​_14995​_Mosaic​_of​_David​_playing​_the​_harp​.JPG.

(kalila), or a crescent-shaped wreath made of a band embedded with gemstones and precious metals (istema), seemingly worn on the forehead, like a tiara or a diadem. The “city of gold,” or “Jerusalem of gold” is mentioned as a uniquely women’s ornament, which could not be worn in public on Shabbat. Esther on the Dura Europos synagogue fresco (Figure 1.17), in addition to wearing a veil, is depicted with a crown, possibly an interpretation of the Talmudic “city of gold.” The shape of the crown resembles those commonly worn by Tyche, the deity who was the symbol of many thriving cities. Neck ornaments, too, can be documented for both women and men. Beyond being worn as decorative items, they were often associated with magical and protective qualities, warding off the evil eye. In Shir ha-Shirim Rabbah (a Talmudic commentary on the biblical Song of Songs), we read about the significance of a jeweled neck, which is being compared to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Most frequently worn by girls or women, numerous types of necklaces are known from archaeological contexts as well as from iconographic renderings. The Virgo on the Beth Alpha synagogue mosaic (Figure 1.13), for instance, wears a beaded necklace with pendants. Arm, wrist, and leg ornaments, mentioned in biblical and Talmudic sources, can also be seen in synagogue illustrations in both Palestine and the diaspora. The Dura Europos Esther (Figure 1.17), for instance, is featured wearing simple arm bands;

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Figure 1.25  So-called Mona Lisa of the Galilee, Dionysus mosaic, third century CE, Israel. Photo by Carole Raddato. Public Domain. https://upload​.wikimedia​ .org​/wikipedia​/commons​/5​/5a​/The_​%22Mona​_Lisa​_of​_the​_Galilee​%22_​ %28possibly​_ Venus​% 29​% 2C​_ part​_ of​_ the​_ Dionysus​_ mosaic​_ floor​_ in​_ Sepphoris_​%28Diocaesarea​%29​%2C​_Israel_​%2815004387483​%29​.jpg.

Virgo on the Hammath Tiberias synagogue mosaic (Figure 1.12) is shown with a bracelet. A variety of earrings, referenced in biblical texts (as agil) and in rabbinic writings (as kipi), are complemented by visual and material records. Among the more common types are pendant earrings worn, for instance, by some of the seasons on the Beth Alpha (Figure 1.13), the Hammath Tiberias (Figure 1.20), and the Sepphoris synagogue mosaics (Figure 1.23 and Figure 1.25), actual examples of which have been found in excavations. Generally speaking, the combined data of visual and material evidence on apparel and accessories in light of biblical and Talmudic texts confirms that the perceptible boundaries between Jews and gentiles were negligible if not absent. While archaeological remains of clothing and adornment specifically linked to Jewish populations are extremely rare (and when preserved, these are only rarely published), the iconographic data is abundant. Yet even at sites that can be directly linked to Jews—occasionally in domestic contexts, but mostly in spaces associated with ritual observance and practice (synagogues and burials)—useful indicators of ethnic and religious identity are limited if not absent. Most figures drawn, painted, or sculpted (appearing on wall paintings, mosaics, or reliefs) are at best only approximately suggestive of contemporary fashions or dress codes. Even seemingly realistic renderings are idealized and tend to blur socioeconomic, religious, and ethnic differences. None of the known and relevant iconographic scenes

52  Social Skin within the confines of ancient and late antique Syro-Palestine represent contemporary individuals or groups of people identified as Jewish. While a number of images or themes illustrate biblical scenes (for example Figures 1.7, 1.9, or 1.17), some of which incorporate named figures (Figure 1.24), the visual characteristics project an idealized vision of how artists, sponsors, patrons, and audiences envisioned and recognized Israelites as an ethnic group. Thus, renderings of biblical figures, though similarly dressed and adorned as identifiable contemporary figures, including portraits of plebeians, patricians, and emperors/empresses, blend imaginary traits of men, women, and children rather than reproduce realistic qualities.112 Representations of mythological figures and personifications, while equally informative regarding garments and accessories, are also limited as visible Jewish identity markers. In other words, iconographic depictions of Jewish dress codes are nonexistent, and imagery of figures, including contemporary individuals, can serve only indirectly as sources that provide information on religious and ethnic markers of identity. Even if, for instance, we accept a common observation that Jewish spaces, specifically images representing Israelite women in biblical contexts, only feature women in long dresses, and never represent nudes, there is nothing at hand that allows us to substantiate a uniquely Jewish dress code. While it can’t be fully established that the lack of visual representations of “Jewish women” reflects an intentional avoidance, there is nothing that suggests—neither visual, material, or textual—that Jewish women and men aspired to be visibly distinct from their pagan and Christian neighbors, a conclusion reached previously based on the literary sources alone.113 It is interesting to note that most elements that visually distinguish Jews as a separate ethnic and religious community did not emerge until the twelfth century in Islamic countries and not before the thirteenth century in Europe and were initially forced upon Jews by their gentile overlords. The Almohad caliph Abu Yusuf Yaqub al-Mansur from Marrakesh, for instance, decreed that Jews had to wear a dark blue garb with large sleeves and a grotesquely oversized hat. His son later changed the color to yellow, which is commonly believed to have influenced Catholic ordinances in Europe.114 Whether related to these kinds of decrees or emerging independently, Maimonides (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Avodat Kokhavim 11:1) in the twelfth century explicitly forbade emulating gentile dress codes, an issue taken up again by fifteenth-century Rabbi Joseph Colon (Maharik), who asked whether a Jew who wears such (gentile) clothing transgresses the biblical prohibition stating “nor shall you follow their precepts” (Leviticus 18:3). He thus amended Maimonides’s ruling by adding that Jews were only restricted to wear “exclusively” gentile items of clothing.115 Ironically, while most citizens of Israel today identify as Jewish, it is mostly Orthodox and particularly ultraOrthodox Jews who closely abide by the rules formulated by the rabbinic authorities, who dress in a way that sets them visually apart from all other communities, both Jewish and non-Jewish. Most striking in this regard are Hasidic men, who wear clothes that are reminiscent of the Polish Christian nobility of the eighteenth century.116

Social Skin  53 Drawing Biological Boundaries Unlike the blurred or absent boundaries between Jews and gentiles in antiquity and late antiquity, biological differences between female and male were highlighted visually by adopting social conventions and regulations. These shaped apparel and accessories in similar ways across various ethnic and religious communities in Roman-Byzantine Syro-Palestine. In her study on Roman women’s dress, Kelly Olson explores how sexual differences engage with social constructions, specifically in the city of Rome. Her observations, though focused on pagan and Christian society, have clear relevance for Jewish society in both Palestine and the diaspora. In her words: Women’s clothing was ideally bound up with notions of honor and ideas of relations between the sexes, and then as now played an important part in the cultural construction of sexual categories: gender-specific clothing and adornment formed the normal aesthetic codes for men and women. Although male and female clothing at Rome was similar in basic design, women’s appearance was recognizably female: women clearly had a separate normal (and normative) style of clothing from that of men.117 And while I have provided a rough outline of overlaps, similarities, and differences in women’s and men’s dress items and accessories, attention here will be on how the distinctions are anchored in the social gender hierarchy of Jewish society. Clothing, as a prime visual agent, establishes identity by relating to gendered behavioral ideals, which are commonly understood to reflect a strict gender binary within the context of ancient Judaism.118 According to this binary, men perform their masculinity and women their femininity, other than through speech, behavior, and rituals, by dressing their bodies as they negotiate, engage, enhance, and/or conceal their distinct biological features.119 While this binary is clearly expressed in the biblical text, the Talmudic discussions—though equally committed to enhancing the biological distinctions between women and men—tend to complicate matters. For instance, in Deuteronomy (22:5), we read, “A woman must not put on man’s apparel, nor shall a man wear woman’s clothing; for whoever does these things is abhorrent to the LORD your God.” In their commentary on this verse, Elliot Kukla and Reuben Zellman explain how this, along with other similar texts, has long been interpreted as a ban on “cross-dressing.”120 Their reading instead suggests that the Talmud defines the biblical injunction as relating exclusively to situations where the wearing of clothes of another gender or falsifying one’s identity is motivated by the desire to infiltrate spaces reserved for the “opposite” sex. In their words, The key point here seems to be that cross-dressing is only prohibited when there are ulterior motives involved—in this case, the violation of another person’s space and therefore trust. When it comes to cross-dressing in and of itself, the Talmud is crystal clear: “There is no abomination here.”121

54  Social Skin Similar to Olson’s observations on gender norms of Roman pagan and Christian society, Dafna Shlezinger-Katsman, in her work on clothes worn by Jews, suggests that distinctions between male and female outerwear were not always zealously observed.122 Some rabbinic traditions, she argues, reckon with both sexes wearing the same kind of apparel. A statement attributed to Rabbi Judah ben Baba, for instance, proposes attaching fringes (tzitzit) to the mantle of a woman because her husband might wear it too (Sifre 115). In another passage, Rabbi Judah bar Ilai’s wife makes a thick mantle of wool to serve them both as an outer garment (B. Nedarim 49b). In other words, some clothes items could be worn by women and men and were thus in their basic design gender-neutral. Production and acquisition of clothing items could also have gender-specific associations. Spinning thread from wool, for instance, was defined in the Talmud as a task done by women, specifically highlighted as a virtue of a married woman. In M. Ketubbot 5:5, for example, we read: And these are tasks that a wife must perform for her husband: She grinds wheat into flour, and bakes, and washes clothes, cooks, and nurses her child, makes her husband’s bed, and makes thread from wool by spinning it. If she brought him one maidservant, i.e., brought the maidservant with her into the marriage, the maidservant will perform some of these tasks. Consequently, the wife does not need to grind, and does not need to bake, and does not need to wash clothes. If she brought him two maidservants, she does not need to cook and does not need to nurse her child if she does not want to, but instead may give the child to a wet nurse. If she brought him three maidservants, she does not need to make his bed and does not need to make thread from wool. If she brought him four maidservants, she may sit in a chair [katedra] like a queen and not do anything, as her maidservants do all of her work for her. Rabbi Eliezer says: Even if she brought him a hundred maidservants, he can compel her to make thread from wool, since idleness leads to licentiousness. Consequently, it is better for a woman to be doing some kind of work. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says: Even one who vows that his wife is prohibited from doing any work must divorce her and give her the payment for her marriage contract, since idleness leads to idiocy. A wife’s responsibilities as a weaver are also mentioned in M. Ketubbot 5:9, where it is written, And what is the fixed amount that she must earn for him? She must spin wool in the weight of five sela of threads of the warp in Judea, which are equivalent to ten sela according to the measurements of the Galilee.123 In contrast and to some extent in contradiction to the expectation that women had numerous duties in the household, with weaving representing the highest virtue, it was men’s duty to make sure his wife was properly dressed. M. Ketubbot 5:8 states explicitly that a husband:

Social Skin  55 must give her a cap for her head, and a belt for her waist, and new shoes from Festival to Festival, i.e., he must buy her new shoes each Festival. And he must purchase garments for her with a value of fifty dinars from year to year. The mishna comments: And he may not give her new clothes, which tend to be thick and warm, in the summer, nor worn garments in the rainy season, as these are too thin and she will be cold. Rather, he should give her clothes at a value of fifty dinars in the rainy season, and she covers herself with these same worn garments in the summer as well. And the leftover, worn clothes belong to her.124 This division in duties as they pertain to dressing the female body thus suggests that women—from the viewpoint of the male-authored texts—were expected to participate physically in the production of textiles. The responsibility of providing suitable clothes for a wife, however, fell upon the husbands, placing the ultimate authority and oversight into their hands. Before turning to the gendered dress codes perceived as appropriate, we must delineate the alleged differences as regard the male and female bodies. As Michael Satlow has convincingly argued, “[F]emale nakedness is understood by the rabbis entirely within a context of female modesty or propriety before men.”125 Unlike male nakedness, female nakedness is neither viewed as an offense against God, nor is it perceived as having hierarchical social implications with regard to other women. Instead, female nudity is viewed as a sign of sexual and moral dissoluteness, and as having no meaning vis-à-vis the sacred. A naked woman, according to Satlow’s understanding of the rabbinic texts, is exclusively recognized in the context of her effect on men, specifically the sexual passion and desires their bodies may arouse in them.126 While this perception is only insinuated in the biblical text, it is clearly stated in Jewish as well as non-Jewish sources from the Second Temple period. Instead of prohibiting or imposing legal rulings, rabbis repeatedly warn men to not look at women in any state of dress or undress, for concern that this could lead to sexual transgression.127 Tannaitic sources describe this concern exclusively in relation to the sotah ritual (the ceremony of the adulteress in Numbers 5:11–31).128 The ritual as illustrated in these sources involves revealing both the hair and “heart” of the alleged adulteress. Rabbi Judah for instance specifies that her “heart” or hair be not revealed if they are “pretty” (M. Sotah 1:5). The Tosepta instead mentions that Rabbi Judah is worried about the effect this could have on the “young priests” (T. Sotah 1.7). The increased anxiety around female nakedness, specifically with regard to the effect that it could have on men, arises in a number of Palestinian and Babylonian Amoraic dicta. All of these views seem to purport that women’s honor is defined by her sexual respectability, of which her state of public dress or undress is a good indicator.129 But apart from these mostly behavioral and circumstantial discussions of female nudity, the rabbis were extremely invested in female physiognomy itself. Shai Secunda describes how male scholars mapped out maturing women’s bodies in “excruciating detail,” paying significantly more attention to the female bodies than to the male ones.130 Ideal body proportions include minute descriptions of all body

56  Social Skin parts, above all perfectly shaped and sized breasts.131 Charlotte Fonrobert demonstrates how the rabbi’s awareness of female physiognomy not only concerns the externally visible characteristics but pertains even to interior organs.132 Other than relating to rituals, in particular, in connection to the laws of menstrual impurity, the authors of these texts show great interest in the architecture of female genitalia. This rabbinic concern for the female body, according to Ishay Rosen-Zvi, is particularly striking in contrast to the focus of the classical writers, who are primarily captivated by the “masculinity” of the male body.133 A number of Talmudic passages illustrate this great attention to the female body, its ideal and less ideal features and qualities, which, according to the rabbis, could and should be both documented and judged. In M. Ketubbot 7:5, for instance, we read that if certain bodily defects of a man’s bride are not disclosed prior to the wedding, and he discovers them after the fact, the marriage is void and he can divorce the “blemished” wife without paying her ketubah (the financial compensation the husband has to pay as stipulated in the marriage contract). Additional women’s bodily flaws are listed in the Tosefta, stating: “[Among] women are moreover added bad breath (lit. the smell of the mouth), body odor (lit. the smell of sweat), and a hairless wart.”134 Iconographic representations of women and men in spaces associated with Jewish rituals suggest that flawless bodies not only express a rabbinic concern but a communal and to some extent universal one (within the context of the Roman and Byzantine empires). Figurative imagery during antiquity and late antiquity, including physiognomy, facial traits, clothes, and apparel, certainly tend to be idealized rather than realistic renderings of actual individuals.135 Male and female figures seem to be represented equally despite rabbinic emphasis on women’s bodies. A further distinction between texts and visual culture concerns the attitude toward nudity and the exposure of women’s hair. While the rabbinic literature clearly distinguishes between female and male nudity—the abomination of male nudity in the sancta only stressed in the texts—iconographic representations of nudes in Jewish spaces, including in synagogues, do not seem to bear out this differentiation. Nude men are shown as frequently as nude women on synagogue walls and floors. The synagogues of Dura Europos (Figure 1.7) and Hammath Tiberias (Figure 1.4) are among the numerous examples where the marked biological differences in female and male bodies can be seen by all visitors and are not limited to those who are literate and have access to the relevant texts. Jewish worshippers—likely both women and men—could look at female and male nude figures.136 Similarly, while the rabbinic texts advocate unequivocally for married women’s obligation to cover their hair, most women featured in synagogue art, including biblical figures, have their hair at least partially visible (Figure 1.7 and Figure 1.17), sometimes in its full length and styled. Without reiterating the complete lists of identical or similar clothes worn by both sexes, or the distinct female and male garments, one aspect of clothing other than the actual dress items that are gender-specific concerns the quality and flow of the fabrics (silk usually being associated with women only) and the way clothes are wrapped around the bodies.137 While the tallit is mentioned usually only in relation

Social Skin  57 to men, rabbinic sources do clearly reference different types of clothing that could be worn by either men or women (referred to as glima, sadin, sudarin, maaforet, and radid). Even these “unisex” clothes items, however, are most commonly referred to in the masculine form only, this evidently being one of the textual and methodological limitations of using rabbinic literature to identify explicitly Jewish women’s clothing in antiquity.138 Another indicator that has been understood as gender-specific concerns the way clothes were draped or tied. According to Shlezinger-Katsman, men are most commonly featured as wearing their mantles in the Roman manner, with the corners of the garment thrown over the left shoulder and the left arm. Women, she argues, are usually depicted with mantles fastened by a brooch above the left shoulder, the corner wrapped around the head like a scarf, in typical Near Eastern fashion. However, we also see women wearing mantles in a manner more similar to the male fashion, as evidenced by the figure of the Virgo (Figure 1.12) on the Hammath Tiberias synagogue mosaic floor.139 While these distinctions indeed hold true for some examples, there seem to be just as many deviations featured iconographically. We also see men with mantles where the corners are pinned together with decorative brooches (i.e., the Sun God of the Zodiac at the Hammath Tiberias synagogue), or women whose robes are thrown rather than tied over their arms (i.e., the Virgo at the Hammath Tiberias synagogue), and perhaps the most common depictions featuring both women and men who wear clothes decorated with symmetrical folds and designs (i.e., Mordechai, Achashverus, Haman, and Esther with her maid on the Dura Europos synagogue frescoes; the personifications of the seasons on the synagogue floor mosaics of Hammath Tiberias and Sepphoris; or the Zodiac signs on the Beth Alpha synagogue floors). Rather than marking a physical distinction between the way women and men draped their clothes, the difference may have been more performative, as Kate Wilkinson has argued.140 In other words, difference was not only about the items of apparel, but about the way they were displayed and presented, and about the manner in which the wearer would move, stand, or walk. One clothing accessory that appears to be associated only with women is the breastband or strophium, made of linen or cotton and worn wrapped around the chest.141 Its primary practical purpose was to tie the tunic, but it was also meant to hold the breasts and give them firmness. Shaping the female curves of the body, specifically the bosom, the strophium was worn by both single and married women. When bound under the breasts it could give an uplift and make a flatchested woman appear busty. Occasionally it was used for restraining growing breasts. While such a band is not visible in any representations of women, the fact that women are consistently shown to have medium-sized chests stresses the idealized nature of these renderings. The representations reflect the desired proportions as discussed in the rabbinic literature, and thus likely respond primarily to the male imaginary of the female body. According to Olson “the ‘respectable’ married woman kept her breastband on even during lovemaking.”142 Thomas Arentzen, however, suggests that it would

58  Social Skin normally be taken off prior to sexual intercourse, and thus its loosening came to be associated with marriage and sexuality.143 As a parallel to the strophium, the epikarsin is an undergarment or undertunic mentioned in the rabbinic texts only in connection to men. It is described as a rectangular piece of fabric with threads up to ten fingers long attached to its corners (M. Kelim 29:1).144 Two further elements that are distinctive have been commonly evoked as indicative of female versus male dress codes.145 The first is the color of the apparel and the second is the two kinds of decorative patterns visible on some overgarments. In Sifre Deuteronomy 115b it is written that “a woman shall not wear a man’s white garments and a man shall not wear colored garments.”146 One of the reasons for recommending colored clothes for women is to camouflage possible menstrual stains. In B. Niddah 61b, we thus read, The Sages taught in a Baraita: A colored garment renders a woman impure due to blood stains if she sees a blood stain on it. Rabbi Natan bar Yosef says: If she sees a blood stain on the colored garment she is not impure due to a blood stain, as the Sages enacted that women wear colored garments, and this decree was made only in order to be lenient with regard to their blood stains, i.e., so that they do not become impure.147 This recommendation, however, was not endorsed by all rabbis.148 Some instructed Jewish women explicitly not to wear red clothes, which recalled menstrual blood and was thus considered a color for non-Jewish women.149 Several rabbinic passages explain that women wore colored garments because they were considered attractive by men. Married women were not only permitted but even encouraged to wear colored garments to please their husbands.150 While the written sources rarely mention white clothes in relation to women—other than in Jewish texts this convention is also noticeable in pagan and Christian writings—the color choices in most of the relevant visual material seem to be random, regardless of the featured gender. On the King David of Israel panel at Dura Europos (Figure 1.26), for instance, only two out of eight men wear white coats, whereas the remaining men are dressed in pink, yellow, and brown coats. Similarly, the scene featuring Moses found in the river (Figure 1.7) shows two women with white coats, two with yellow, and two with pink ones. Despite the wide range of colors represented among the textiles found at archaeological sites in the Judean desert, including 34 different shades of red, yellow, brown, blue, purple, and green, it is difficult to attribute most of them to specific items of clothing or to a wearer’s gender identity.151 While black is mentioned in the sources as symbolizing sin (B. Mo’ed Qatan 17a), as the color worn by those standing trial (Y. Rosh Hashanah 1:3, 57b), or as symbolizing mourning and grief, worn by both women and men, it is rarely seen in iconographic renderings. A rare exception appears on the Dura Europos murals, where a grieving widow’s body and head are covered by a black mantle. While no identifiable black fragments of textiles have been uncovered in excavations, other

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Figure 1.26  King David anointed king by Samuel, Dura Europos synagogue fresco, third century CE, Syria. Yale University Art Gallery. Public Domain.

than charred pieces of burnt fragments, a nearly complete black hairnet, possibly that of a mourning woman, has come to light in the Cave of Letters.152 The second element proposed as indicative of gendered dress codes concerns the recurrent appearance of a pattern of a notched line on male overcoats and a gamma-form pattern on female mantles (Figures 1.27 and 1.28). This interpretation, first proposed by Yigael Yadin and more recently endorsed by Roussin and Slezinger-Katsman, is based on a number of examples found on the Dura Europos synagogue murals. While Yadin conceded that from the fourth century CE this rule gradually eased, Sheffer and Granger-Taylor have argued that these patterns were used interchangeably to decorate women’s and men’s clothes throughout the Roman and Byzantine period.153 Non-attributable textile fragments with both kinds of patterns have been found at Dura Europos and in the Cave of Letters. More so than any other aspect of the female body—apart from the sexual organs and breasts—it is women’s hair that indicates their biological and social standing. In Olson’s words, “[Roman women’s] hair seems to have been for some the seat of female attractiveness and a locus of feminine sexuality.”154 This perception, while clearly shared by men of other patriarchal societies (pagan and Christian), is rooted in biblical texts, and was laid out in great detail in the Mishnah and the Talmud.155

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Figure 1.27  Garment fragments with notched line pattern, Cave of Letters, second century CE, Israel, Yadin, The Finds from the Bar-Kokhba Period in the Cave of the Letters, Plate 67, 1963. Photo by David Harris. Courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem.

In Deuteronomy (12:12), for instance, it is said that if a foreign woman is captured in war, her hair should be shorn before her captor is allowed to take her as his wife, thereby suppressing her sexual attractiveness. In rabbinic literature, unbound or loose hair continued to be considered sexual and thus was frowned upon. In B. Berakhot 24a we read that a woman’s hair is ‘ervah, a term that connotes sexual transgression. Accordingly, if not cut, bound, covered, or tamed, hair knows no boundaries—just like a woman’s sexuality, or like women themselves. Married women were generally required to cover their hair in public. The Mishnah states (M. Ketubbot 7:6; cf. T. Ketubbot 7:6; Y. Ketubbot 7:7, 31b; B. Ketubbot 72a–b) that if a woman goes outdoors with her head uncovered she might lose her ketubah.156 The rabbis not only encouraged a husband whose wives would transgress this rule to divorce her, but defined him as evil if he did not do so (T. Sotah 5:9) and further absolved him of his obligation to pay damages pursuant to her marital contract if he did (M. Ketubbot 7:6). Only in some exceptional circumstances can mature women reveal their hair. Thus in M. Ketubbot 2:1, it is written that when a young woman married and was taken from her father’s home to that of her husband-to-be, her hair was ceremoniously left unbound—but only for a limited time. Either during the ceremony or immediately afterward, her hair was tied again and covered, signaling her newly

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Figure 1.28  Garment fragment with notched gamma pattern, Cave of Letters, second century CE, Israel, Yadin, The Finds from the Bar-Kokhba Period in the Cave of the Letters, Plate 68, 1963. Photo by David Harris. Courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem.

acquired social status.157 Occasionally, women in mourning would wear their hair unbound, loose, and disheveled.158 Further references to mature women without head coverings can be found with regard to either prostitutes or adulteresses. In B. Eruvin 100b, for instance, the rabbis describe a woman who lets her hair grow long and wild as a prostitute, associating her with the demon Lilith, who uses her hair to seduce men. In T. Ketubbot 7:6, on the other hand, the text attributes uncovered hair simply to a woman of loose morals. The rabbinic sotah ritual, rooted in the biblical precedent of Numbers (5:18), where priests are instructed to publicly signify the unbridled sexuality of a suspected adulterous by unbinding her hair, resonates with the “sinful woman” in the New Testament, who is described with loose and unbound hair (Luke 7:36–50). The ceremony described in M. Sotah (1:5) was meant to elicit shame, despite the fact that the erotic nature of her loosened hair and her exposed bosom could have had the opposite effect on those viewing the ceremony.159 A wife’s status and value, based on a reading of these texts, was clearly tied to her sexuality and her husband’s exclusive ownership thereof. Her sexuality— meaning the balance between desirability and fertility—was focused on reproduction. Women seem to have enjoyed as much liberty in choosing their apparel

62  Social Skin as men. As authors of the texts, men may have imagined and idealized Jewish women’s bodies and apparel. In the end, however, it was the women who had the ultimate authority and thus the agency to fashion themselves. Their active participation in modeling their role in society is indicated in multiple ways in the visual representations. First, unlike in the rabbinic literature, where women’s nudity is understood very differently from men’s, women appear naked as frequently as do men. Second, female apparel is just as diversified if not more so than male apparel. In other words, while men imagined themselves as the ultimate authority on women’s bodies and sexualities, it was the latter who had the agency to fashion themselves and to curate the visual projections of their personalities. Or, as Thomas Arentzen put it, “Agency belongs to things as well as persons. Words, in other words, do not thing; clothes do.”160 And while words have deliberated at great length and with much interest on Jewish women’s bodies and apparel, how these women actually marked, revealed, or dressed their bodies, was ultimately in their hands. Seductive Modesty Though I have established that Jews in antiquity were not easily recognizable by their apparel, women—both Jewish and gentile—clearly looked different from men. And this difference was marked by simultaneously concealing and revealing biologically distinct features and functions, using dress and apparel as tools to construct the gendered body with an emphasis on the male-female binary.161 Biological and social functions were thus closely linked, with the physical and visual appearance displaying principles, beliefs, and tastes. Kelly Olson’s observations on women’s dress in ancient Rome are applicable to women throughout the larger Empire during Roman and Byzantine rule, encompassing Jewish society in both Syro-Palestine and the diaspora. In her words, “[T] the subtlest details in dress helped to distinguish between levels of social and moral hierarchy. Clothes were a key part of the sign systems of Roman civilization – a central aspect of its visual language, for women as well as men.”162 Despite her acknowledgment that this hierarchy not only differentiated between various levels of moral behavior among women, but also placed men as socially superior and dominant over them, she concludes that women’s dress carried agency, an interpretation that has increasingly found approval among scholars both of texts and visual and material culture. In the words of Jean Ann Graham, “Adornment was a deliberate act, indicative both of female agency and a knowledge of the power of the visual, by which a woman could communicate the self to others and infuse the self with a sense of esteem and legitimacy.”163 While both biblical and rabbinic sources recognize and indeed glorify the virtues of female beauty, they also convey a certain measure of fear, indeed anxiety, as to the erotic power of women’s bodies, dressed and undressed. Like pagan and Christian authors, rabbis aspire to counter women’s sexuality and sensual appeal with norms and regulations for self-presentation. These apply to daughters, mothers, wives, and widows, and also to harlots or adulteresses. The guiding principle

Social Skin  63 that underlies most of these male-authored texts posits modesty as women’s prime virtue—and modest dress codes as visually the most character-defining element. Supplementing a traditional reading of the texts through the lens of my proposed model of agency, we can, however, establish that rather than being controlled by men, it is the women who ultimately shaped, fashioned, and manipulated their appearance, negotiating the seemingly countering yet ultimately complementary qualities of lure and reticence. This approach, of exploring the ancient dress of Jewish women, produces a distinct form of female agency that I will refer to as “seductive modesty.” A number of biblical passages make references to women’s beautiful apparel, some among them with an explicit understanding of the power it gave the wearers. In II Samuel (1:24) we read about colorful women’s garments decorated with embroidery and jewels: “Daughters of Israel … who clothed in crimson and finery, who decked your robes with jewels of gold.” In Ezekiel (16:13) we learn about the quality of the fabrics: “[A]nd your apparel was of fine linen, silk, and embroidery.” Isaiah (3:22–23) lists specific clothes items and apparel used by the haughty Daughters of Zion, including anklets, caps, veils, scarves, shawls, and expensive robes. The words, “[S]he is clothed with strength and splendor; she looks to the future cheerfully” in Proverbs (31:24) are evocative of the combined qualities of respectability and agency.164 The insistence on judging and indeed controlling women’s sexuality by demanding modest dress and behavior not only emerges in the rabbinic texts, some of which I have reviewed here, but resonates as well with much of the Greco-Roman pagan and Christian writings that discuss women’s physical and visual presence within both the domestic and public spheres. That modesty was the ideal measure of beautification for a woman was expressed as early as the first century BCE by authors such as Tibullus and Propertius and continued to characterize much of the early Jewish and Christian writings.165 Eric Silverman, while recognizing that the biblical concept of modesty shaped the rabbis’ understanding of gendered dress codes, argues that the earlier writings never explicitly defined modest dress codes. He deconstructs the complicated relation between biblical and Talmudic perceptions of modesty, and specifically how these texts contributed to shaping genderdistinct norms: In rabbinic culture, clothing domesticated human desire. Dress [however] did not deny sexuality altogether. But the effort to dress sexuality in legitimacy hardly proved egalitarian. The concept of modesty or tzniut mandates allencompassing restraint (e.g., B Sukkah 49b). […] The rabbis anchored this value to an exhortation by the prophet Micah “to walk modestly with your God” (6:8). Predictably, this charge conveys little specificity. It certainly makes no reference to dress. Indeed, the Torah never overtly speaks about modest clothing. But the rabbis understood a proper wardrobe to restrain vanity and desire. … All this holds true regardless of gender. But the experience and rationale for modest garb differs significantly between men and women. […T]he real solution in rabbinic culture to the male libido was not for men to

64  Social Skin police their own behavior. It was for women […] to cover their bodies with ample clothing. Women were thus made accountable for their own conduct as well as the behavior of men who might cave at the merest sight of female flesh. Men appear in public more frequently than women, said the rabbis, and so must assume the weighty responsibility for maintaining the outward appearance of Judaism (Stern 1994: 242–43). But in practice, the ethic of modesty confines women within far more rigorous rules—partly, declared the Talmud, as punishment for Eve’s sin (B. Eruvin 1000b).166 Silverman’s readings of biblical and rabbinic texts alongside other recent studies on apparel in antiquity have placed gender increasingly at the center of their investigations. While textual studies are limited in their scope to discern the female voice, scholars are ever more aware that appearance was not exclusively defined by male opinions, sensitivities, and judgments—and perhaps most of all by the male gaze. Traditionally, the appreciation of women’s beauty, natural and enhanced, has been analyzed in the context of male power and indulgence. Liz Forst, for instances, describes “women’s engagement with their looks … as imposed by patriarchy for men’s gratification.”167 Similarly Karen Callaghan characterizes systems of beauty norms, specifically in western history, “as a socially constructed mechanism of patriarchal social control.”168 Or more recently, Allan Cooper explains that “the doctrine of beauty serves to construct the very core of individual identity and is central to the evolution of patriarchal systems of power that have dominated each epoch of human history.”169 But, as feminist scholarship has aptly pointed out, most of these assumptions deny women a part in shaping their own bodies. Sociologists Paula Black and Ursula Sharma, for instance, have shown how beauty and adornment have always been visible methods for women to put themselves forward in society, to create social spaces, and to construct themselves as individuals. In their view, apparel, including in patriarchal societies, has given women a measure of power and influence within their sphere, and many women likely derived pleasure and complacency from how they looked, and enjoyed the effect they had on both women and men.170 Or, as Kathy Davis, a scholar focusing most of her work on women’s bodies and health, has argued, “women were not ignorant cultural dopes coerced into beautification, … but rather knowledgeable and adept cultural actors.”171 Elaborating on the aspect of women as “cultural actors,” it should be noted that an actor’s performance interacts with the visual perception and reception of the audience; the performance is exposed to viewers, onlookers, indeed, to a gaze—a relationship that has been examined in different ways. In her influential article on visual pleasure, Laura Mulvey purports that the “see-er” of a female subject was assumed to be necessarily and eternally male.172 While Mulvey’s work was groundbreaking in analyzing the construction of patriarchy and how it defines the male gaze, many of her methods and conclusions have been revisited and revised, establishing for instance that not only men gaze, and not only women are the objects of the gaze. Among the critics is sociologist Liz Frost, who suggests that assuming an eternal

Social Skin  65 male viewer of a female object is to disregard the significance of women’s visual pleasure and the feminine identificatory processes.173 Similarly, and more directly relevant to women’s dress, anthropologist Véronique Nahoum-Grappe contends that beauty and fashion, rather than being a burden thrust upon women by men, constitute “a tactical mask, which women more or less deliberately and elaborately chose to wear.”174 Kate Wilkinson, exploring the question of women’s dress and agency in ancient times, argues that “the ideology of modesty was not a hindrance to women’s participation in history, but that ‘doing modesty’ was part of her participation in history.”175 Using ancient texts to examine modest dress codes with regard to female Christian ascetism, Wilkinson also employs archaeological and ethnographic data as well as insights from performance studies.176 In the texts, so she demonstrates, we can read about the stereotypically “bad” woman who greedily adorns herself, uses the most expensive fabrics, and displays herself immodestly.177 It should be stressed, however, that apparel was a moral issue for men as well as women. A number of scholars have noted that men in antiquity and late antiquity who wore clothes that were too elaborate or who presented themselves in an erotic manner could open themselves to charges of effeminacy.178 Women, in contrast, who “dressed up” too much were often defined as unchaste.179 Various elements of visual and material culture, retrieved from antiquity and late antiquity, suggest that dress codes were not as unequivocally modest as recommended or, indeed, as ordered by the authors of Talmudic and other contemporary sources. Wilkinson notices that actual remains of clothes uncovered in excavations “show a love for bright rich detail and skilled work.”180 Textile fragments from the Judean desert associated with Roman period Jewish communities display a similar tendency, where the more than 30 different colors retrieved in a number of caves that served as hideouts during the Bar Kokhba revolt (mostly shades of red, yellow, brown, blue, purple, and green) indicate a clear preference for polychrome apparel.181 The iconographic representations of both women’s and men’s dress likewise deviate from the discreet appearance the texts advocate. Color choices for both women and men are varied, and adornment and jewelry choices suggest an analogous inclination for elaborate apparel. But perhaps most indicative of the discrepancy between the rabbis’ positions on women’s appropriate apparel and the iconographic record—despite the fact that both portray an idealized image—concerns the question of head covering. Whereas the texts unequivocally dictate that the married woman cover her hair so as not to entice or distract men, representations of adult women show much creativity and diversity in enhancing rather than detracting from hair, in spite of wearing veils, shawls, or mantles. Regardless, however, of this discrepancy between text and visual and material culture—not to mention the many gaps we have in the transmission of historical realities, such as the actual practices of Jewish women as individuals and as members of different communities, or chronological and geographical variations—head covering customs and fashions are complex matters. A significant corpus of feminist literature has engaged the topic within both ancient and contemporary societies. For the most part, historians understand these practices as indicative of control

66  Social Skin of the female body and the hiding or erasure of women’s identity. Following this argument, Howard Eilberg-Schwartz defines head covering as a profoundly patriarchal matter, indicative of the “misogynistic and eroticized interplay of hiding and revealing of the female visage, both of which ignore the person of the individual woman.”182 This observation, however, fails to acknowledge the psychological, socioreligious, and cultural contexts, not to mention the power and agency women can retain despite covering their hair, partially or fully. A number of scholars who have examined the concept of modesty across different cultures and religions actually have found that modest dress codes tend to be associated with lower objectification experiences, allowing women’s self-affirmation as human beings rather than sexual objects.183 Psychologists Viren Swami, Jusnara Miah, Nazerine Noorani, and Donna Taylor, for instance, found that the use of the hijab among Muslim women living in the UK is associated with lower objectification experiences, with a tendency to place less importance on appearance, and with a more positive body image.184 Similarly, a recent study of Jewish women in Israel conducted by psychologists, compared body image perceptions among secular, modern-Orthodox, and ultra-Orthodox women. It concluded that the last group, which observed modest dress codes most stringently, suffered the least from body image dissatisfaction. The “harmful effects on the psychological well-being of women in western societies” is thus more commonly associated with women who do not observe the modest dress codes prescribed for them.185 Observations relevant to women’s active participation in fashioning their bodies rather than being simply reduced to dressed objects, bring us once again to ancient and late antique contexts. Wilkinson illustrates women’s participation in fashioning their bodies with the example of the mantle or palla, a necessary garment for women from Republican times to the Byzantine era. We know that by the fourth century CE at the latest it was no longer a rectangle of cloth so large that it enveloped the entire body. Iconographic representations and archaeological remains from the fourth and fifth centuries CE indicate a significantly smaller piece of fabric that would merely cover parts of the chest, neck, and head. It seems that women not only had a say in but were likely responsible for this change in fashion. In her analysis of the late Roman and Byzantine period palla, Alexandra Croom demonstrates that it was not held in place with pins or brooches but draped and secured by holding it with one hand or simply by throwing it over the shoulder.186 In other words, unlike the modern veil, the palla was a loose-fitting garment that didn’t remain static. It was a highly flexible, adjustable garment, and as Wilkinson stated, “the mantle was not simply ‘put on’ women as one might put a drape over an object.”187 Wearing it clearly required skill and involved some level of performance; a performance where women remained in control of their power of seduction and made their own decisions concerning the display of modesty. In conclusion, Jewish women’s dress during antiquity and late antiquity is marked by a considerable level of flexibility and diversity in the way cultural and religious tenets were expressed. While we are limited in outlining chronological and regional distinctions and changes, the overall picture is one of great diversity

Social Skin  67 and ample room for women to participate in shaping their social integration. This integration allowed them to build on and project individual tastes and preferences. Jewish women’s agency, just like that of her gentile neighbors, was largely defined by the complicated navigation of overlapping socioreligious boundaries defined by sexuality, attractiveness, and modesty.”188 And despite men’s efforts to command their bodies and sexuality, women embodied and fashioned their physiques and identities performing their agency. Notes 1 The contract written on papyrus was uncovered in 1961 during an excavation conducted by Yigael Yadin in the Cave of Letters in Nahal Hever (Judean Desert). For the complete text of the ketubah and a discussion, see Yigael Yadin et al., “Babatha’s Ketubba,” Israel Exploration Journal 44 (1994), 79–84. 2 The term social skin was coined by anthropologist Terence Turner as a mode to explore skin and hair as boundaries between the self and the other, the individual and society. See Terence Turner, “The Social Skin,” Journal of Ethnographic Theory 2, no. 2 (2012), 486, 503. 3 For a preliminary study of this chapter, see Galor, “What Were They Wearing?” 4 Shaye Cohen, “‘Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not’: How Do You Know a Jew in Antiquity When You See One?” in Diasporas in Antiquity, edited by Shaye Cohen and Ernest Frerichs (Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2020), 1–45. 5 Cohen, “Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not,” 10. 6 The concept(s) of normative Judaism(s) in antiquity have been debated for a century, beginning with George Foot Moore’s seminal study on normative Judaism, which for him was defined by the Mishnah. See George Foot Moore, “The Rise of Normative Judaism: I. To the Recognition at Jamnia,” The Harvard Theological Review 17, no. 4 (1924), 307–73. This view has been challenged, making a place for the view that there were numerous Judaisms in antiquity, reaching its high point during the late Second Temple period. For different recent views on these debates, see Daniel Boyarin, “No Ancient Judaism,” in Strength to Strength. Essays in Honor of Shaye J. D. Cohen, edited by Michael Satlow (Providence: Society of Biblical Literature, Brown Judaic Studies, 2018), 75–102; and Daniel Langton and Alexander Philip eds., Normative Judaism? Jews, Judaism and Jewish Identity. Melilah: Manchester Journal of Jewish Studies 1 (Piscataway: Gorgias Press, 2012). 7 The term Syro-Palestine, originally introduced in the 1930s by American scholar William Foxwell Albright, has come to gradually replace the designation of biblical archaeology, to be superseded more recently by “Levantine archaeology.” While Syro-Palestine was to address the problems and inherent biases of using Bronze and Iron Age material culture to mostly enhance the biblical narrative—an approach that has motivated the field since its emergence in the nineteenth century—the latter terminological substitution (Levantine for Syro-Palestinian) was meant to avoid political sensitivities. Regionally the southern Levant encompasses the territories of the modern state of Israel, the West Bank, the Gaza Strip, Jordan, Lebanon, Cyprus, Turkey, and Syria. Since our inquiry, however, relates primarily to apparel specific to Jewish communities—focusing on the region of modern-day Israel-Palestine and Syria—our geographical frame is best served by using the nomenclature of Syro-Palestine. 8 On the changing settlement patterns and the gradual Christianization of this era, see Doron Bar, “Population, Settlement and Economy in Late Roman and Byzantine Palestine (70–641 AD),” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 67, no. 3 (2004), 307–20.

68  Social Skin 9 Elie Barnai et al. eds., A Historical Atlas of the Jewish People: From the Time of the Patriarchs to the Present (New York: Schocken Books, 2002), 68. On the difficulty to determine exact population numbers for Roman Palestine, see Chester Charlton McCown, “The Density of Population in Ancient Palestine,” Journal of Biblical Literature 66, no. 4 (1947), 425–36. 10 In recent years, archaeological evidence seems to suggest that towns and villages were more heterogeneous than previously thought. I am grateful to Gregg Gardner who has drawn my attention to this. This insight is partially based on his fieldwork at Horvat Midras. 11 Willemm Selik, “The Languages of Roman Palestine,” in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Palestine, edited by Catherine Hezser (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 122–3; Jordi Redondo, “The Greek Literary Language of the Hebrew Historian Josephus,” Hermes 128, no. 4 (2000), 420–34. 12 Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2001), 243–7. 13 Scholars have long debated about the leading cultural impact in this region, and whether it was mostly defined by Roman or instead by Hellenistic culture. 14 See for instance, Shai Secunda’s groundbreaking methodology for re-contextualizing the Babylonian Talmud. Shai Secunda, The Iranian Talmud. Reading the Bavli in Its Sasanian Context. Rereading Late Ancient Religion. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2021). 15 Benno Jacob, Das Buch Genesis (Berlin: Schocken, 1934), 29. On interpretations of the biblical Adam and Eve story, see among others Thomas Staubli, “Die Göttliche Einkleidung Adams und Seiner Frau (Gen. 321) in Ihrem Altorientalischen und Biblischen Kontext,” in Conference on Gender and Social Norms in Ancient Israel, Early Judaism and Christianity. Texts and Material Culture, Proceedings of Conference held at the University of Koblenz-Landau, Germany, February 18–21, 2016, edited by Michaela Bauks et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2019), 19–36; and Roy Jeal, “Clothes Make the (Wo)Man,” in Foundations for Sociorhetorical Exploration: A Rhetoric of Religious Antiquity Reader, edited by Vernon Robbins et al. (Atlanta: Society for Biblical Literature, 2016), 394. 16 Turner, “The Social Skin,” 503. 17 On these perceived boundaries, see for instance Judith Lieu et al. eds., The Jews Among Pagans and Christians: In the Roman Empire (London and New York: Routledge, 1992); Jason von Ehrenkrook, “Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity: An Interdisciplinary Research Initiative,” The Journal of the International Institute 13, no. 1 (2005). 18 See Boyarin, Carnal Israel. 19 Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 5. 20 On how his approach has defined a new generation of Talmud scholars, see Shai Secunda, “The Construction, Composition and Idealization of the Female Body in Rabbinic Literature and Parallel Iranian Texts: Three Excursuses,” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 23, Jewish Woman and Her Body (2012), 59–60. 21 Other than George Foot Moore who writes about the “highly esteemed” Jewish virtue of modesty, or Louis Epstein who mentions the Jews’ “abhorrence of male nakedness,” Larissa Bonfante highlights the “fundamental opposition” of the Hebrew tradition to Greek athletic nudity, or Jonathan Z. Smith defines it simply as Judaism’s “horror” of nudity. See, George Foot Moore, Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era, Vol. 2 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1930), 272–3; Louis Epstein, Sex Laws and Customs in Judaism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1948), 28; Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art,” American Journal of Archaeology 93 (1989), 563; Jonathan Z. Smith, “The Garments of Shame,” History of Religions 5 (1966), 220.

Social Skin  69 22 Michael Poliakoff, “‘They Should Cover Their Shame’: Attitudes Toward Nudity in Greco-Roman Judaism,” Notes in the History of Art 12, no. 2, Essays on Nudity in Antiquity in Memory of Otto Brendel (1993), 57. 23 See in particular Michael Satlow, “Jewish Construction of Nakedness in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Biblical Literature 116, no. 3 (1997), 429–54. 24 See among others, Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art;” Michael Squire, The Art of the Body: Antiquity and its Legacy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 25 Yaron Eliav, “The Roman Bath as a Jewish Institution: Another Look at the Encounter Between Judaism and the Greco-Roman Culture,” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period 31, no. 4 (2000) 416–54. 26 For instance, Rabban Gamaliel (M. Avodah Zarah 3.4) comments on an Aphrodite statue at a bath in Acre, stating that the presence of such decorative statues does not constitute idolatry. See also Jacob Neusner, The Mishnah: A New Translation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), 665; and more recently Eliav, “The Roman Bath as a Jewish Institution,” 432. 27 On the question of nudity, specifically in the context of mixed bathing, see Eliav, “The Roman Bath as a Jewish Institution,” 440–9. 28 For the Hammath Tiberias synagogue, specifically its mosaic pavement, see Moshe Dothan, Hammath Tiberias: Late Synagogues (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1983), 47–8; and Shulamit Miller, “The Mosaics of Tiberias and Hammat Tiberias during the Roman, Byzantine and Early Islamic Periods,” MA thesis, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2011, 32–5. On the zodiac being a common motif in ancient synagogues, see Rachel Hachlili, “The Zodiac in Ancient Jewish Synagogal Art: A Review,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 9, no. 3 (2002), 219–58. On the Beth Shearim Leda and the Swan sarcophagus, see Nahman Avigad, “Excavations at Beth She’arim, 1955: Preliminary Report,” Israel Exploration Society 7, no. 4 (1957), 248–9. 29 On the fact that these images were acceptable in Jewish contexts, see Poliakoff, “They Should Cover Their Shame,” 59–61. 30 On the excavation of the Dura Europos synagogue, see Carl Hermann Kraeling, The Synagogue: The Excavations at Dura-Europos, Final Report VIII, Part I (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1956). Among the extensive literature on the interpretation of the murals, Kurt Weitzmann and Herbert Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art (Washington: Dumbarton Oaks, 1990). Specifically on the question of nudity, see Warren Moon, “Nudity and Narrative: Observations on the Frescoes from the Dura Synagogue,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 60, no. 4 (1992), 587–658. 31 See for instance Kära L. Schenk, “Temple, Community, and Sacred Narrative in the Dura-Europos Synagogue,” The Journal of the Association for Jewish Studies Review 34, no. 2 (2010), 195–229. 32 In the original excavation photographs of the Dura synagogue and on early reproductions, made at the dig, the breasts and genitalia were outlined with dark lines. On this, see Steven Fine, “Note on the Cover Illustration: The Daughter of Pharaoh at Dura Europos,” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 4 (2001), 5–6. 33 Warren Moon provides an elaborate analysis of the Talmudic texts, see Moon, “Nudity and Narrative,” 597. 34 For a more detailed description of the iconography, see Moon, “Nudity and Narrative,” 601. On the “Closed Temple,” see Rachel Wischnitzer, “The ‘Closed Temple’ Panel in the Synagogue of Dura-Europos,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 91, no. 3 (1971), 367–78. 35 On the fact that the villa could have potentially been owned by Jews, see Eric Meyers, “Aspects of Everyday Life in Roman Palestine with Special Reference to Private

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Domiciles and Ritual Baths,” in Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman Cities, edited by John Bartless (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 195. Warren Moon comments on the exceptional nudity of children and others at Dura Europos, for whom nakedness is a natural state, including baby Moses, the widow’s child, and Ezekiel’s soul. See Moon, “Nudity and Narrative,” 602. On the fact that in the Middle East, other populations were circumcised and thus not different from Jewish men, see Cohen, “Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not,” 12–22. Jeal, “Clothes Make the (Wo)Man,” 393–4. Among the first to bring the material culture into dialogue with textual evidence is Lucille Roussin. See Lucille Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine: Archaeological Remains and the Evidence from the Mishnah,” in The World of Roman Costume, edited by Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 183. Michael Higger, The Treatises Derek Erez: Masseket Derek Erez, Pirke Ben Azzai, Tosefta Derek Erez; Edited from Manuscripts with an Introduction, Notes, Variants and Translation (New York: Moinester Publishing, 1935), 112. A different sequence is described in Derekh Eretz Rabbah 2:3, beginning with the head covering, followed by shoes, trousers or undergarments, and haluq. On This, see also Samuel Krauss, Talmudische Archäologie, Vol. 1 (Leipzig: G. Fock, 1910), 165 and 597. Michael Avi-Yonah, “Scythopolis,” Israel Exploration Journal 12 (1962), 123–36; and Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 182–3. Mentioned in Mishnah Baba Qamma 10:9. See also Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 182. Clement of Alexandria, 2.20.116; Pausanias 5.5.2; and Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 182. This regulation did not include the clothes worn by the high priest. Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 183; Douglas Edwards, “The Social, Religious, and Political Aspects of Costume in Josephus,” in The World of Roman Costume, 153–62; and Alfred Rubens, A History of Jewish Costume (New York: Crown Publishing Group, 1973), 8. Of the approximate 2000 textile fragments uncovered at Massada, for instance, only 122 are included in the final report. See Avigail Sheffer and Hero Granger-Tylor, “Textiles from Masada: A Preliminary Selection,” in Masada IV, The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965. Final Reports. Lamps; Textiles; Basketry, Cordage and Related Artifacts; Human Skeletal Remains, edited by Dan Barag et al. (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1995), 154; and Galor, “What Were They Wearing?” 40. This was originally noted by Yigael Yadin. See Yigael Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1963), 70. See also Jody Magness, “Women at Qumran?” in What Athens Has to Do with Jerusalem. Essays on Classical, Jewish, and Early Christian Art and Archaeology in Honor of Gideon Foerster, edited by Leonard Rutgers (Leuven: Peeters Publishers, 2002), 112. Dafna Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Daily Life of Jews in Roman Palestine, 366. Other than Magness and a minority of archaeologists who hold on to Roland de Vaux’s theory that Qumran should be associated with the Essene sect described by Flavius Josephus, the majority of archaeologists do not believe that we can identify a specific site with this community. On this see, Katharina Galor et al. eds., Qumran. The Site of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Archaeological Interpretations and Debates. Proceedings of the Conference held at Brown University November 17–19, 2002 (Leiden: Brill, 2006). While white clothes were recommended as the optimal color by the rabbis for Jewish

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59 60 61 62 63 64

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men in general, Magness believes that at Qumran white fragment textiles support the site’s identity as Essene. See Magness, “Women at Qumran?” 113. Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 221. Cohen, “Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not,” 7–8. Cohen, “Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not,” 7–8. Yadin suggests that the word haluq is derived from the word heleq, which means piece. Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 205. See also Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 183. Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion, 2nd ed. (Gloucestershire: Tempus Publishing, 2002), 31. On the question of colors, see Aliza Steinberg, Weaving in Stones. Garments and Their Accessories in the Mosaic Art of Eretz Israel in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Archaeopress Publishing, 2020), 14–5. See B. Mo’ed Qatan 10a; Y. Mo’ed Qatan 80d; M. Nega’im 11:10. See also Lucille Roussin’s discussion on this. Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 25–6. On the tunics with clavi, see Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 209. See also Judith Lynn Sebesta, and Larissa Bonfante eds., The World of Roman Costume (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 614. According to Aliza Steinberg, it is a tunica talaris. See Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 17. See also Eliezer Lipa Sukenik, The Ancient Synagogue of Bet Alpha (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1932), 115; and Asher Ovadiah, Mosaic Art in Ancient Synagogues in Israel from the 4th to the 7th Centuries (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1993), 34 [Hebrew]. In Christian art, Abraham usually wears a tunic and a pallium on top. Isaac is either shown wearing a short tunic or is naked. According to Yadin, the clavi on tunics worn by Jews, were merely decorative. Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 207–11. On the tunica manicata, see Andreas Alföldi, Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreiche (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1970), 270; Gildas Hamel, “Poverty and Charity,” in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 318–9; and Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 21. For a detailed description of the mosaic, see Uzi Leibner and Shulamit Miller, “Figural Mosaic in the Synagogue at Khirbet Wadi Hamam,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 24 (2010), 238–64. See Rina Talgam and Zeev Weiss, “The Mosaic of the House of Dionysos at Sepphoris. Excavated by E. M. Meyers, E. Netzer and C. L. Meyers,” Qedem 44 (2004), 10–1, Figures 8–11; and Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 41–3. Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Presentation and Society (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), 11; Lillian Wilson, The Clothing of the Ancient Romans (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1938), 133, 152. Tziona Grossmark, “Jewelry and Jewelry-Making in the Land of Israel at the Time of the Mishnah and the Talmud,” Ph.D. dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 1994), 16 [Hebrew]; and Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 202. Sukenik, The Ancient Synagogue of Bet Alpha, 34–5, Plate 17; and Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 202. See Mary Houston, Ancient Greek, Roman and Byzantine Costume and Decoration (London: Adam & Charles Black, 1947), 38–67; Eve Bertero and Milo Sagis, Modes de l’Antiquité grècque et romaine (Paris: Falbalas, 2009), 16–17; and Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 215–6. On the chlamys, see Alföldi, Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreiche, 270; Ursula Scharf, Straßenkleidung der römischen Frau (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1994), 45–6; Ball, Jennifer, Byzantine Dress. Representations of Secular Dress in Eighth to Twelfth-Century Painting (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 30.

72  Social Skin 66 Steinberg, Weaving in Stone, 60–3. 67 On the palla, see Steinberg, Weaving in Stone, 220–2. 68 Gideon Foerster, “Painted Christian Burial Cave near Kibbutz Lohamei HaGetaot,” in The Western Galilee Antiquities, edited by Moshe Yedaya (Tel Aviv, 1986), 385 [Hebrew]. 69 Steinberg, Weaving in Stone, 211, Fig. 245; and 221. 70 On skirts and kilts, see Steinberg, Weaving in Stone, 48–9. 71 Steinberg, Weaving in Stone, 50; Alexander Macbean, A Dictionary of Ancient Geography, Explaining the Local Appellations in Sacred Grecian and Roman History (London: G. Robinson and T. Cadell, 2018), 628; Andrew Dalby, Empire of Pleasures, Luxury and Indulgence in the Roman World (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 99; Pliny: III.IV.31a. 72 Steinberg, Weaving in Stone, 50; Liza Cleland, Glenys Davies, and Lloyd LlewellynJones eds., Greek and Roman Dress from A to Z (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 6. 73 Uzi Leibner, “Khirbet Wadi Hamam: A Roman Period Village and Synagogue in the Galilee,” Qadmoniot 139 (2010), 36–39 [Hebrew]; Uzi Leibner, “Excavations at Khirbet Wadi Hamam (Lower Galilee): The Synagogue and the Settlement,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 2 (2010), 235. On Roman footwear in Palestine, see Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 12–3. On Roman footwear more generally, specifically during the first century CE, see Shane Baker, “Loosing a Shoe Latchet: Sandals and Footwear in the First Century,” Bringham Young University Studies 356 (1996– 97), 196–206. 74 This counters Shlezinger-Katsman, who suggests that most men, women, and children in Palestine wore sandals. See Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 12. Steinberg instead suggests that in Palestine people wore most commonly sandals and shoes. See Steinberg, Weaving in Stone, 312. 75 Yadin, Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 165–8, Pl. 57. 76 Sukenik, The Ancient Synagogue of Bet Alpha, 115. 77 Nachum Cohen, “Leather and Leather Products during the Mishnaic and Talmudic Periods,” M.A. thesis, Bar-Ilan University, 1995, 28–9 [Hebrew]. 78 For the sock from Masada, see Sheffer and Granger-Taylor, “Textiles from Masada,” 221–3. For socks found in Egypt, see Dorothy Burnham, “Coptic Knitting: An Ancient Technique,” Textile History 6 (1972), 116–24. On Roman socks more generally, see Barbara Köstner, “Wearing Socks in Sandals: The Height of Roman Fashion?” in Small Finds and Ancient Social Practices in the Northwest Provinces of the Roman Empire, edited by Stephanie Hoss and Alissa Whitmore (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2016), 16–27. 79 On nail-studded shoes, see Norma Goldman, “Roman Footwear,” in The World of Roman Costume, 101–32. 80 For a more detailed discussion of nailed versus non-nailed sandals, see Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 188. 81 On this ceremony, see Catherine Hezser, “The Halitzah Shoe: From Female Subjugation to Symbolic Emasculation,” in Jews and Shoes, edited by Edna Nahshon (New York: Berg Publishers, 2008), 47–63. 82 Y. Shabbat 6:1, 7d; Y. Sotah 9:15, 24c; T. Job 23:7–10. See also Tal Ilan, Mine and Yours Are Hers: Retrieving Women’s History from Rabbinic Literature AGU 41 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 156–7. 83 For an extensive discussion on mostly male hairstyles and barbers in ancient Jewish society, based on rabbinic texts, see Joshua Schwartz, “Haircut and Barber in Ancient Jewish Society,” Jerusalem and Eretz Israel 10–11 (2018), 7–40. 84 Men instead were forbidden from shaving pubic or underarm hair. When they did, they were guilty of the transgression of “dressing like a woman.” On this, see Schwartz, “Haircut and Barber and Ancient Jewish Society,” 8.

Social Skin  73 85 On this, see Elizabeth Bartman, “Hair and the Artifice of Roman Female Adornment,” American Journal of Archaeology 105, no. 1 (2001), 1–25. 86 Specifically on Roman girls, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 145–8. 87 On further rabbinic references to braids, see Schwartz, “Haircut and Barber in Ancient Jewish Society,” 357. 88 https://www​.biblicalarchaeology​.org​/daily​/ancient​-cultures​/ancient​-israel​/the​-only​ -ancient​-jewish​-hair​-ever​-found/. 89 Yadin suggested to identify the braids as those of a Jewish woman, a theory that has been challenged by Joseph Zias and Azriel Gorski. See Joseph Zias and Azriel Gorski, “Capturing a Beautiful Woman at Masada,” Near Eastern Archaeology 69, No. 1 (2006), 45–8. 90 Some hairbands and ribbons had to be either loosened or removed before ritual immersion, others did not. Relevant discussions appear in M. Miqwa’ot 8:5; M. Shabbat 6:1, 5; B. Shabbat 57a–b; Y. Shabbat 6:1, 7d. On Roman hairbands and ribbons, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 53–64; and Leslie Shumka, “Designing Women: The Representation of Women’s Toiletries on Funerary Monuments in Roman Italy,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, Phoenix supplementary, Vol. 46, edited by Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 176. On Roman hairpins, see Janet Stephens, “Ancient Roman Hairdressing: On (Hair)Pins and Needles,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 21, no. 1 (2008), 110–32. See also Schwartz, “Haircut and Barber in Ancient Jewish Society,” 354. 91 Leila Leah Bronner, “From Veil to Wig: Jewish Women’s Hair Covering,” Judaism 42, no. 4 (1993), 466, 470. 92 Bronner, “From Veil to Wig,” 467–8. 93 Judith Lynn Sebesta, “Symbolism in the Costume of the Roman Woman,” in The World of Roman Costume, 48–9; Cynthia Thompson, “Hairstyles, Head-Coverings, and St. Paul: Portraits from Roman Corinth,” The Biblical Archaeologist 51, no. 2 (1988), 112. 94 On the various types of headgear available to women beyond the palla, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 16–25, 30–6, 39, 42, 53. 95 Based on the Babylonian Talmud, it appears that the situation was different in Persia. Some Jewish men always had their hair covered, and others for certain occasions. Though, it does not appear to have been a consistent practice. On this, see ShlezingerKatsman, “Clothing,” 11. 96 Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 362–81. 97 Cohen, “Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not,” 4–6; Joshua Schwartz, “Hair’s the Thing: Women’s Hairstyle and Care in Ancient Jewish Society,” in Essays in Honor of Shae J. D. Cohen. Society of Biblical Literature, edited by Michael Satlow (Providence, Brown Judaic Studies, 2018), 342. 98 Ramsay MacMullen, “Woman in Public in the Roman Empire,” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 29, no. 2 (1980), 208. 99 Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 186–8. 100 Shaye Cohen remarks that Tertullian makes the same point in De Oratione 22 = CChr 1:270. He agrees with Claude Aziza’s remarks, that the literary context in both the De Corona and the De Oratione suggests that Tertuallian derives his “evidence” from the Hebrew Bible, not from his observation of contemporary Jewish women. Shaye Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 31; Claude Aziza, Tertullien et le Judaïsme (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1977), 20–1. 101 Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 248, Pl. 100; Magness, “Women at Qumran?” 103–6; Tal Ilan, Jewish Women in Greco-Roman Palestine: An Inquiry into Image and Status (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1995), 129–32. Rabbinic sources also

74  Social Skin

102 103 104

105

106

107 108 109

110 111 112

113 114 115 116

occasionally refer to a woolen hairnet (svacha) and a cap (kipa) to cover women’s hair. See M. Kelim 24:16, 28:9–10; M. Ketubbot 5:8; T. Sotah 3:3. Yadin, Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 246–248; and Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 11–2. Burton Visotzky, Aphrodite and the Rabbis. How the Jews Adapted Roman Culture to Create Judaism as We Know It (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2016), 211. Katharina Galor, “Jewelry: The Archaeological Evidence,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Daily Life of Jews in Roman Palestine, 393. See also Tziona Grossmark on the literary evidence more generally. Tziona Grossmark, “Jewelry: The Literary Evidence,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Daily Life of Jews in Roman Palestine, 382–92. A. R. Gup, and E. S. Spencer, “Roman Syria,” in Gold Jewelry: Crafts, Style and Meaning from Mycenae to Constantinopolis, edited by Tony Hackens and Rolf Winkes (Leuven: Institut supérieur d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’art, Collège Erasme, 1983), 115–23. Elena Chernov, “Metal Objects and Small Finds from En-Gedi,” in En-Gedi Excavations II: Final Port (1996–2002), edited by Yizhar Hirschfeld (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2007), 514, 115, 534; Tania Coen-Uzzielli, “Marble Decorations, Wall Mosaics, and Small Finds,” in The Roman Baths of Hammat Gader: Final Report, edited by Yizhar Hirschfeld (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1997), 452. Jack Ogden, Jewelry of the Ancient World (London: Trefoil, 1982), 22–3; CoenUzzielli, “Marble Decorations, Wall Mosaics, and Small Finds,” 452; Chernov, “Metal Objects and Small Finds from En-Gedi,” 515. Maud Spaer, Ancient Glass in the Israel Museum: Beads and Other Small Objects (Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 2001), 193. Barbara Deppert-Lippitz, Anne R. Bromberg, John Dennis, and Tom Jenkins, Ancient Gold Jewelry at the Dallas Museum of Art (Dallas: Dallas Museum of Art, 1997), 109. Specifically for Jewish contexts, see Tziona Grossmark, “Laws Regarding Idolatry in Jewelry as a Mirror Image of Jewish-Gentile Relations in the Land of Israel During Mishnaic and Talmudic Times,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 12 (2005), 217–9; Yizhar Hirschfeld and Miriam Feinberg Vamosh, “A Country Gentleman’s Estate. Unearthing the Splendors of Ramat Hanadiv,” Biblical Archaeology Review 31, no. 2 (2005), 29. Michal Dayagi-Mendels, Perfumes and Cosmetics in the Ancient World (Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1989), 74. Galor, “Jewelry,” 398–9. This topic has been at the center of Roman portraiture since the 1950s. See among others, Gisela Richter, “The Origin of Verism in Roman Portraits,” The Journal of Roman Studies 45, no. 1 (1955), 39–46; David Jackson, “Verism and the Ancestral Portrait,” Greece & Rome 34, no. 1 (1987), 32–47; Irene J. Winter, “What/When Is Portrait? Royal Images of the Ancient Near East,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 153, no. 3 (2009), 254–70; Specifically on aspects of gender binaries, see Eric Varner, “Transcending Gender: Assimilation, Identity, and Roman Imperial Portraits,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome. Supplementary Volumes, Vol. 7, Role Models in the Roman World. Identity and Assimilation (2008), 185–205. First suggested by Shaye Cohen and then picked up again as a question by Joshua Schwartz in relation to head covers. Cohen, “Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not,” 4–6; Schwartz, “Hair’s the Thing.” Eric Silverman, A Cultural History of Jewish Dress (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 48. Jeffrey Woolf, “The Life and Response of Rabbi Joseph Colon Trabotto (Maharik),” PhD dissertation, Bar Ilan University, 1991, Responsum # 81. Zvi Ron, “Stripes, Hats, and Fashion,” Modern Judaism. A Journal of Jewish Ideas and Experience 40, no. 3 (2020), 315–8.

Social Skin  75 117 Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 10. 118 On readings that question this binary, see for example Fonrobert, “Regulating the Human Body,” 270–94; Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, “The Semiotics of the Sexed Body in Early Halkhic Discourse,” in Closed and Open: Readings of Rabbinic Texts, edited by Matthew Kraus (Piscataway: Gorgias Press, 2006) 69–96. 119 Daniel Boyarin has been at the forefront of debunking this binary, primarily by deconstructing men’s masculinity as understood through Talmudic literature. See Daniel Boyarin, Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997). 120 Elliot Kukla, and Reuben Zellman, “To Wear Is Human to Live—Divine: Parashat Ki Tetse (Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19),” in Torah Queeries: Weekly Commentaries on the Hebrew Bible, edited by Gregg Drinkwater et al. (New York: New York University Press, 2009), 254–5. 121 Kukla and Zellman, “To Wear Is Human to Live,” 255. 122 Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 370. 123 Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 183. 124 Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 184. 125 Satlow, “Jewish Construction of Nakedness in Late Antiquity,” 431. 126 Satlow, “Jewish Construction of Nakedness in Late Antiquity,” 453–4. 127 For more detailed discussions of this concept, see also Michael Satlow, Tasting the Dish: Rabbinic Rhetorics of Sexuality (BJS; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), 155–69; Michael Satlow, “‘Try to Be a Man’: The Rabbinic Construction of Masculinity,” Harvard Theological Review 89 (1996), 19–40. 128 M. ‘Abot 1:5 describes the fear associated with talking with a woman, which could lead to impropriety. 129 Satlow, “Jewish Construction of Nakedness in Late Antiquity,” 453–4. 130 On the ideal shape of women’s breasts, see Mishnah Bekhorot 7:1 and Tosefta Bekhorot 5:1. Both Shai Secunda and Ishay Rosen-Zvi discuss how the Talmudic literature describes the ideal female body proportions. See Secunda, “The Construction, Composition and Idealization of the Female Body,” 70; Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “Temple of the Body: The List of Blemishes in Mishnah Bekhorot and the Place of the Temple in Tannaitic Discourse,” Jewish Studies 43 (2005–2006), 49–87. 131 On the ideal shape of women’s breasts, see M. Bekhorot 7:1 and T. Bekhorot 5:1. See also Secunda’s discussion. Secunda, “The Construction, Composition and Idealization of the Female Body,” 76–8. 132 See Fonrobert, “Gender Duality,” 274–80. Translation from Secunda, “The Construction, Composition and Idealization of the Female Body,” 70. 133 Rosen-Zvi, “Temple of the Body,” 78. 134 M. Bekhorot 7:1 and M. Bekhorot 5:1. See also Secunda, “The Construction, Composition and Idealization of the Female Body,” 71. 135 This does not exclude representations of old, drunk, destitute, or other negative portrayals, which emerged as early as the Hellenistic period. See for instance Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway, Hellenistic Sculpture I. The Styles of ca. 331– 200 B.C. (Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 313–48; Barbara Hughes Fowler, The Hellenistic Aesthetic (Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 44–136. 136 Erwin R. Goodenough recognizes phallic symbols throughout the wall paintings at Dura Europos. Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period. Edited and forwarded by Jacob Neusner (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), Vols. 9–11. 137 Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 14. 138 Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 371. 139 Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 371.

76  Social Skin 140 Kate Wilkinson, Women and Modesty in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 23–5, 29. 141 On the breastband in general, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 15–16, 50–3, 69, 97. 142 Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 53. 143 Arentzen, “Conversing with Clothes,” 60–1. See also Henry Maguire, “Body, Clothing, Metaphor: The Virgin in Early Byzantine Art,” in Cult of the Mother God in Byzantium. Texts and Images. Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies, edited by Leslie Brubaker and Mary Cunningham (London and New York: Routledge, 2016), 44–5. John Chrysostom (ca. 347–407) claimed that even a religious virgin—who wore, mind you, a simple and unadorned dress—might be able to use a belt as a way to make herself sexy. See John Chrysostom, Homily 8 on First Timothy (trans. From NPNF, ser. 1, 13:433–4). 144 On the epikarsin, see Joan Taylor, What Did Jesus Look Like (London: Christian Evidence Society, 2021), 38 and 44; and Shlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing,” 369. 145 See for instance, Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 186; Kraeling, The Synagogue, Pls. 52–3; Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman period, Vols. 9–11. 146 Magness assumes this can be substantiated by the archaeological record using the example of Qumran textile fragments. Magness, “Women at Qumran?” 114. 147 Miriam Shapero, The Dress System of Traditional Jewry, unpublished Rabbinic thesis (New York: Hebrew Union College, Jewish Institute of Religion, 1987), 45. 148 See for instance B. Mo’ed Qatan 23a which describes Rabba wearing a new Roman red tunic as he finds himself in the 30-day mourning period. 149 B. Nidda 61b; Shapero, The Dress System, 45; Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 186. 150 B. Ketubbot 71a; B. Pesahim 109a; Shapero, The Dress System, 42; Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 186. 151 Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 225. 152 Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 248; Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine,” 186. 153 Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 227–32; Sheffer and Granger-Taylor, “Textiles from Masada,” 200–1. 154 Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 71. 155 Women’s hair obviously had an erotic connotation in antiquity and was rarely let loose in public. On this, see for instance Charles Cosgrove, “A Woman’s Unbound Hair in the Greco-Roman World, with Special Reference to the Story of the ‘Sinful Woman’ in Luke 7:36–50,” Journal of Biblical Literature 124 (2005), 679; Bronner, “From Veil to Wig,” 466. Thompson notes that “Greco-Roman women seem to have let down their hair publicly only on special occasions, such as mourning, some Greek wedding ceremonies, or religious rites” such as the worship of Dionysus. Thompson, “Hairstyles, Head-Coverings, and St. Paul,” 112. 156 Schwartz, “Hair’s the Thing,” 351. 157 T. Sabb. 4 (5):7, which mentions a generic headdress. The bride may have also worn a festive garland as described in t. Sabb. 4[5]:7. See also Schwartz’s discussion of these texts. Schwartz, “Hair’s the Thing,” 344–5. 158 Schwartz, “Hair’s the Thing,” 345. 159 Schwartz, “Hair’s the Thing,” 349. 160 Arentzen, “Conversing with Clothes,” 72. 161 On the fact that clothing simultaneously revealed and concealed social position in Roman society, see Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing: Dress and Fashion in the Ancien Régime, trans. J. Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 4. On clothing acting as a means of “constructing the body,” see Anne Hollander,

Social Skin  77

162 163 164 165

166 167 168 169 170 171

172 173 174

175 176

Seeing Through Clothes (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 3; Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 7. This quote opens the summary of her book. Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman. Jean Ann Graham, “The Psychotherapeutic Value of Cosmetics,” Cosmetic Technology 5 (1983), 26. On how the rabbis maintained this hierarchy, see Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 29. See also Steinberg’s discussion of these sources. Steinberg, Weaving in Stones, 196. Plato for instance advocates that women wear virtue as a robe and clothe themselves with excellence instead of garments. Plato, Rep., V.457a. Or, according to Seneca the Younger, the greatest sin for a woman was a lack of modesty, and he praised those who did not desire gold and pearls, who refrained from using cosmetics, and who preferred modest garments over revealing ones. Seneca the Younger, 16.3–4. Or else, the Greek philosopher Epictetus, protests against the practice of fourteen-year-old girls dressing up and adorning themselves in order to please men, when they should concentrate on being modest. He emphasizes that women who are busy nurturing their beauty find it hard to understand that their dignity depends on a decent appearance. Epidicus: Ench., XL. Much along the same lines, Clement of Alexandria insists that a woman should wear modest clothes in styles that suites her age, build, shape, role, and personality. Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 3. 11, PG 8. Cols. 626–61. Silverman, A Cultural History of Jewish Dress, 38–39; Stern, Sacha, Jewish Identity in Early Rabbinic Writings. Arbeiten zur Geschichte des Antiken Judentums und des Urchristentums 23 (Leiden: Brill, 1994). Liz Frost, “Doing Looks: Women, Appearance and Mental Health,” in Women’s Bodies: Discipline and Transgression, edited by Jane Arthurs and Jean Grimshaw (London and New York: Cassel Press, 1999), 122. Karen Callaghan, “Introduction,” in Ideals of Feminine Beauty: Philosophical, Social, and Cultural Dimensions, edited by Karen Callaghan (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1994), ix. Allan Cooper, Patriarchy and the Politics of Beauty (New York and London: Lexington Books, 2019), 1. Paula Black and Ursula Sharma, “Men are Real, Women are ‘Made Up’: Beauty Therapy and the Construction of Femininity,” Sociological Review 49, no. 1 (2001), 100–16. Kathy Davis, “Remaking the She-Devil: A Critical Look at Feminist Approaches to Beauty,” Hypatia 6, no. 2 (1991), 21–43; Kathy Davis, Reshaping the Female Body: The Dilemma of Cosmetic Surgery (London and New York: Routledge, 1995). On this, see also Olson, 111–2. Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16, no. 3 (1975), 6–18. Frost, “‘Doing Looks’,” 129. Véronique Nahoum-Grappe, “The Beautiful Woman” in A History of Women in the West, Vol. 3: Renaissance and Enlightenment Paradoxes, edited by Natalie Zemon Davis and Arlette Farge (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1993), 95. Wilkinson, Women and Modesty in Late Antiquity, 26–7. Both Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, writing on Spartan women, and Mary Harlow, writing on Roman women in the early Imperial era, use first-hand accounts of Iranian women wearing the chador as comparative material for their analyses of ancient women’s active participation in dress display. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, “Veiling the Spartan Woman,” in Dress and Identity, edited by Mary Harlow, BAR International Series 2356 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012), 18; Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, “Dressing to Please Themselves: Clothing Choices for Roman Women,” in Dress and Identity, edited by Mary Harlow, Dress and Identity. BAR International Series 2356 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012), 37–46. 37–8.

78  Social Skin 177 Wilkinson, Women and Modesty in Late Antiquity, 36. 178 On masculinity and the avoidance of effeminacy features for Roman men, see Mary Harlow, “Clothes Maketh the Man: Power, Dressing and Elite Masculinity in the Later Roman World,” in Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300900, edited by Leslie Brubaker and Julia M. H. Smith, Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300–900 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 44–53; Craig Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); and Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011), 59–83. 179 Wilkinson, Women and Modesty in Late Antiquity, 36. 180 Wilkinson, Women and Modesty in Late Antiquity, 36. 181 Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period, 225 and Pl. 58. 182 Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, “Introduction: The Spectacle of the Female Head,” in Off with Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion and Culture, edited by Howard Eilberg-Schwartz and Wendy Doniger (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 2. 183 Barbara Fredrickson and Tomi-Ann Roberts, “Objectification Theory: Toward Understanding Women’s Lived Experiences and Mental Health Risks,” Psychology of Women Quarterly 21 (1997), 173–206; Andrei Holman, “Religion and the Body: An Overview of the Insertions of Religion in the Empirical Psycho-Social Research Lines on the Body,” European Journal of Science and Theology 8, no. 3 (2012), 127–34; and Alexander Mussap, “Strength of Faith and Body Image in Muslim and Non-Muslim Women,” Mental Health, Religion and Culture 12, no. 2 (2009), 121–7. 184 Viren Swami, Jusnara Miah, Nazerine Noorani, and Donna Taylor, “Is the Hijab Protective? An Investigation of Body Image and Related Constructs among British Muslim Women,” British Journal of Psychology 105, no. 3 (2014), 352–63. 185 Shulamit Geller et al., “Exploring Body Image, Strength of Faith, and Media Exposure among Three Denominations of Jewish Women,” Current Psychology 39 (2020), 1776. 186 Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion, 90–1. 187 Wilkinson, Women and Modesty in Late Antiquity, 52–3. For an excellent example of interdisciplinary work which uses literary sources, artistic representations, archaeological finds, and contemporary recreation to study Roman women’s hairstyles, see Stephens, “Ancient Roman Hairdressing,” 110–32. 188 Galor, “What Were They Wearing?” 50–1.

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Social Skin  79 Bartman, Elizabeth. “Hair and the Artifice of Roman Female Adornment.” American Journal of Archaeology 105, no. 1 (2001): 1–25. Bertero, Eve and Milo Sagis. Modes de l’Antiquité grècque et romaine. Paris: Falbalas, 2009. Black, Paula and Ursula Sharma. “Men are Real, Women are ‘Made Up’: Beauty Therapy and the Construction of Femininity.” Sociological Review 49, no. 1 (2001): 100–116. Bonfante, Larissa. “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art.” American Journal of Archaeology 93 (1989): 543–570. Boyarin, Daniel. Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. ———. “No Ancient Judaism.” In Strength to Strength. Essays in Honor of Shaye J. D. Cohen, edited by Michael Satlow, 75–102. Providence: Society of Biblical Literature, Brown Judaic Studies, 2018. Bronner, Leila Leah. “From Veil to Wig: Jewish Women’s Hair Covering.” Judaism 42, no. 4 (1993): 465–477. Burnham, Dorothy. “Coptic Knitting: An Ancient Technique.” Textile History 6 (1972): 116–124. Callaghan, Karen. “Introduction.” In Ideals of Feminine Beauty: Philosophical, Social, and Cultural Dimensions, edited by Karen Callaghan, vii–xv. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1994. Chernov, Elena. “Metal Objects and Small Finds from En-Gedi.” In En-Gedi Excavations II: Final Port (1996–2002), edited by Yizhar Hirschfeld, 507–543. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2007. Cleland, Liza, Glenys Davies, and Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, eds. Greek and Roman Dress from A to Z. London and New York: Routledge, 2007. Coen-Uzzielli, Tania. “Marble Decorations, Wall Mosaics, and Small Finds.” In The Roman Baths of Hammat Gader: Final Report, edited by Yizhar Hirschfeld, 442–455. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1997. Cohen, Nachum. “Leather and Leather Products during the Mishnaic and Talmudic Periods.” M.A. thesis, Bar-Ilan University, 1995. [Hebrew]. Cohen, Shaye. The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999. ———. “‘Those Who Say They Are Jews and Are Not’: How Do You Know a Jew in Antiquity When You See One?” In Diasporas in Antiquity, edited by Shaye Cohen and Ernest Frerichs, 1–45. Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2020. Cooper, Allan. Patriarch and the Politics of Beauty. New York and London: Lexington Books, 2019. Cosgrove, Charles. “A Woman’s Unbound Hair in the Greco-Roman World, with Special Reference to the Story of the ‘Sinful Woman’ in Luke 7:36–50.” Journal of Biblical Literature 124 (2005): 679–684. Croom, Alexandra. Roman Clothing and Fashion, 2nd ed. Gloucestershire: Tempus Publishing, 2002. Dalby, Andrew. Empire of Pleasures, Luxury and Indulgence in the Roman World. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Davis, Kathy. “Remaking the She-Devil: A Critical Look at Feminist Approaches to Beauty.” Hypatia 6, no. 2 (1991): 21–43. ———. Reshaping the Female Body: The Dilemma of Cosmetic Surgery. London and New York: Routledge, 1995. Dayagi-Mendels, Michal. Perfumes and Cosmetics in the Ancient World. Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1989.

80  Social Skin Deppert-Lippitz, Barbara, Anne R. Bromberg, John Dennis, and Tom Jenkins. Ancient Gold Jewelry at the Dallas Museum of Art. Dallas: Dallas Museum of Art, 1997. Dothan, Moshe. Hammath Tiberias: Late Synagogues. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1983. Edwards, Douglas. “The Social, Religious, and Political Aspects of Costume in Josephus.” In The World of Roman Costume, edited by Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante, 153–162. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001. Eilberg-Schwartz, Howard. “Introduction: The Spectacle of the Female Head.” In Off With Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion and Culture, edited by Howard Eilberg-Schwartz and Wendy Doniger, 1–14. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995. Eliav, Yaron. “The Roman Bath as a Jewish Institution: Another Look at the Encounter Between Judaism and the Greco-Roman Culture.” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period 31, no. 4 (2000): 416–454. Epstein, Louis. Sex Laws and Customs in Judaism. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1948. Fine, Steven. “Note on the Cover Illustration: The Daughter of Pharaoh at Dura Europos.” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 4 (2001): 5–6. Foerster, Gideon. “Painted Christian Burial Cave near Kibbutz Lohamei HaGetaot.” In The Western Galilee Antiquities, edited by Moshe Yedaya, 416–431. Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense, 1986. [Hebrew]. Fonrobert, Charlotte Elisheva. “The Semiotics of the Sexed Body in Early Halkhic Discourse.” In Closed and Open: Readings of Rabbinic Texts, edited by Matthew Kraus, 69–96. Piscataway: Gorgias Press, 2006. Fredrickson, Barbara and Tomi-Ann Roberts. “Objectification Theory: Toward Understanding Women’s Lived Experiences and Mental Health Risks.” Psychology of Women Quarterly 21 (1997): 173–206. Frost, Liz. “Doing Looks: Women, Appearance and Mental Health.” In Women’s Bodies: Discipline and Transgression, edited by Jane Arthurs and Jean Grimshaw, 117–137. London and New York: Cassel Press, 1999. Galor, Katharina. “Jewelry: The Archaeological Evidence.” In The Oxford Handbook of the Daily Life of Jews in Roman Palestine, edited by Catherine Hezser, 393–402. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. ———. “What Were They Wearing? Jewish Women and Social Practice in Late Antiquity.” In Journal of Ancient Judaism. Supplements, Conference on Gender and Social Norms in Ancient Israel, Early Judaism and Christianity. Texts and Material Culture, Proceedings of Conference Held at the University of Koblenz-Landau, Germany, February 18–21, 2016, edited by Michaela Bauks, Katharina Galor, and Judith Hartenstein, 37–53. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2019. Geller, Shulamit, Jonathan Handelzalts, Rita Gelfat, Shirli Arbel, Yael Sidi, and Sigal Levy. “Exploring Body Image, Strength of Faith, and Media Exposure among Three Denominations of Jewish Women.” Current Psychology 39 (2020): 1774–1784. Goldman, Norma. “Roman Footwear.” In The World of Roman Costume, edited by Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante, 101–132. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001. Goodenough, Erwin Ramsdell. Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period. Edited and forwarded by Jacob Neusner. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988, Vols. 9–11. Gup, A. R. and E. S. Spencer. “Roman Syria.” In Gold Jewelry: Crafts, Style and Meaning from Mycenae to Constantinopolis, edited by Tony Hackens and Rolf Winkes, 115– 123. Leuven: Institut supérieur d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’art, Collège Erasme, 1983.

Social Skin  81 Graham, Jean Ann. “The Psychotherapeutic Value of Cosmetics.” Cosmetic Technology 5 (1983): 25–26. Grossmark, Tziona. “Jewelry and Jewelry-Making in the Land of Israel at the Time of the Mishnah and the Talmud.” Ph.D. dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 1994. [Hebrew]. ———. “Laws Regarding Idolatry in Jewelry as a Mirror Image of Jewish-Gentile Relations in the Land of Israel during Mishnaic and Talmudic Times.” Jewish Studies Quarterly 12 (2005): 213–226. ———. “Jewelry: The Literary Evidence.” In The Oxford Handbook of the Daily Life of Jews in Roman Palestine, edited by Catherine Hezser, 382–392. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Hachlili, Rachel. “The Zodiac in Ancient Jewish Synagogal Art: A Review.” Jewish Studies Quarterly 9, no. 3 (2002): 219–258. Hamel, Gildas. “Poverty and Charity.” In The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, edited by Catherine Hezser, 308–24. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Harlow, Mary. “Clothes Maketh the Man: Power, Dressing and Elite Masculinity in the Later Roman World.” In Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300– 900, edited by Leslie Brubaker and Julia M. H. Smith, 44–53. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. ———. “Dressing to Please Themselves: Clothing Choices for Roman Women.” In Dress and Identity. BAR International Series 2356, edited by Mary Harlow, 37–46. Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012. Heszer, Catherine. “The Halitzah Shoe: From Female Subjugation to Symbolic Emasculation.” In Jews and Shoes, edited by Edna Nahshon, 47–63. New York: Berg Publishers, 2008. ———. Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2001. Higger, Michael. The Treatises Derek Erez: Masseket Derek Erez, Pirke Ben Azzai, Tosefta Derek Erez; Edited from Manuscripts with an Introduction, Notes, Variants and Translation. New York: Moinester Publishing, 1935. Hirschfeld, Yizhar and Miriam Feinberg Vamosh. “A Country Gentleman’s Estate. Unearthing the Splendors of Ramat Hanadiv.” Biblical Archaeology Review 31, no. 2 (2005): 18–31. Hollander, Anne. Seeing Through Clothes. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. Holman, Andrei. “Religion and the Body: An Overview of the Insertions of Religion in the Empirical Psycho-social Research Lines on the Body.” European Journal of Science and Theology 8, no. 3 (2012): 127–134. Houston, Mary. Ancient Greek, Roman and Byzantine Costume and Decoration. London: Adam & Charles Black, 1947. Hughes Fowler, Barbara. The Hellenistic Aesthetic. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1989. Ilan, Tal. Jewish Women in Greco-Roman Palestine: An Inquiry into Image and Status. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1995. ———. Mine and Yours Are Hers: Retrieving Women’s History from Rabbinic Literature AGU 41. Leiden: Brill, 1997. Jacob, Benno. Das Buch Genesis. Berlin: Schocken, 1934. Jeal, Roy. “Clothes Make the (Wo)Man.” In Foundations for Sociorhetorical Exploration: A Rhetoric of Religious Antiquity Reader, edited by Vernon Robbins, Robert von Thaden Jr., and Bart Bruehler, 393–414. Atlanta: Society for Biblical Literature, 2016.

82  Social Skin Köstner, Barbara. “Wearing Socks in Sandals: The Height of Roman Fashion?” In Small Finds and Ancient Social Practices in the Northwest Provinces of the Roman Empire, edited by Stefanie Hoss and Alissa Whitmore, 16–27. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2016. Kraeling, Carl Hermann. The Synagogue: The Excavations at Dura-Europos, Final Report VIII, Part I. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1956. Krauss, Samuel. Talmudische Archäologie, Vol. 1. Leipzig: G. Fock, 1910. Kukla, Elliot and Reuben Zellman. “To Wear Is Human to Live—Divine: Parashat Ki Tetse (Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19).” In Torah Queeries: Weekly Commentaries on the Hebrew Bible, edited by Gregg Drinkwater, Joshua Lesser, and David Shneer, 254–258. New York: New York University Press, 2009. Leibner, Uzi. “Excavations at Khirbet Wadi Hamam (Lower Galilee): The Synagogue and the Settlement.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 2 (2010): 221–237. ———. “Khirbet Wadi Hamam: A Roman Period Village and Synagogue in the Galilee.” Qadmoniot 139 (2010): 30–40. [Hebrew]. Leibner, Uzi and Shulamit Miller. “Figural Mosaic in the Synagogue at Khirbet Wadi Hamam.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 24 (2010): 238–264. Lieu, Judith, John A. North, and Tessa Rajak, eds. The Jews Among Pagans and Christians: In the Roman Empire. London and New York: Routledge, 1992. Llewellyn-Jones, Lloyd. “Veiling the Spartan Woman.” In Dress and Identity. BAR International Series 2356M, edited by Mary Harlow, 17–36. Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012. Macbean, Alexander. A Dictionary of Ancient Geography, Explaining the Local Appellations in Sacred Grecian and Roman History. London: G. Robinson and T. Cadell, 2018. MacMullen, Ramsay. “Woman in Public in the Roman Empire.” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 29, no. 2 (1980): 208–218. Magness, Jody. “Women at Qumran?” In What Athens Has to Do With Jerusalem. Essays on Classical, Jewish, and Early Christian Art and Archaeology in Honor of Gideon Foerster, edited by Leonard Rutgers, 89–123. Leuven: Peeters Publishers, 2002. Maguire, Henry. “Body, Clothing, Metaphor: The Virgin in Early Byzantine Art.” In Cult of the Mother God in Byzantium. Texts and Images. Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies, edited by Leslie Brubaker and Mary Cunningham, 39–52. London and New York: Routledge, 2016. McCown, Chester Charlton. “The Density of Population in Ancient Palestine.” Journal of Biblical Literature 66, no. 4 (1947): 425–436. Meyers, Eric. “Aspects of Everyday Life in Roman Palestine with Special Reference to Private Domiciles and Ritual Baths.” In Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman Cities, edited by John R. Bartlett, 193–219. London and New York: Routledge, 2002. Miller, Shulamit. “The Mosaics of Tiberias and Hammat Tiberias during the Roman, Byzantine and Early Islamic Periods.” MA thesis, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2011. Moon, Warren. “Nudity and Narrative: Observations on the Frescoes from the Dura Synagogue.” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 60, no. 4 (1992): 587–658. Moore, George Foot. “The Rise of Normative Judaism: I. To the Recognition at Jamnia.” The Harvard Theological Review 17, no. 4 (1924): 307–373. ———. Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era, Vol. 2. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1930. Mussap, Alexander. “Strength of Faith and Body Image in Muslim and Non-Muslim Women.” Mental Health, Religion and Culture 12, no. 2 (2009): 121–127.

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2

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz

Hidden Monuments A dedicatory inscription of the miqveh in Worms incorporated into the patio wall of the synagogue references a “longing for the courtyards [of the temple in Jerusalem]” (Figure 2.1).1 These lines not only establish the approximate date of construction of one of Ashkenaz’s best-known miqva’ot, namely around 1185/86. They also provide a testimony to how the biblical past informs the present of the Jewish community, who either used this installation regularly or at least knew of its existence. The Jews of this region, not unlike their forebears in Palestine, are known—after all— to have harbored a kind of “cultic nostalgia.”2 Beyond displaying the interest in ancient Israelite and Judean rituals as promoted by Hasidei Ashkenaz (German Pietists), the inscription along with the installation, the miqveh, tells us much about the community who lived in one of these centers of Jewish life and learning. We can assume that its members took part, at least passively (by observing others) if not actively (by immersing themselves), in a ritual that was understood as central to their identity as Jews, one that set them apart as a distinct minority living among a Christian majority and that linked them directly to the Jerusalem temple ritual performed by priests and pilgrims prior to entering the holy compound. Most likely located centrally, within the town’s Jewish Quarter, the entrance to the Worms miqveh and the plaque would have been visible to most Jews who lived in or near the town, and perhaps others who would pass through this public area.3 While most women did not know how to read Hebrew—they were versed in the more widely spoken languages of the region (medieval French and German), enhanced by what is known as a sort of proto-Yiddish—the essence of these lines must have been known to them as well.4 Yet, we can hardly verify how many of the Jewish women and men belonging to this community actually immersed themselves occasionally or regularly in these pools. The presence of this and other similar installations in the villages and towns of medieval Ashkenaz, however, suggest that institutionally and structurally, miqva’ot played a prominent role in people’s daily lives. What is most striking about these medieval pools, in particular, if compared to numerous other known contemporary ritual pools in Europe and, for that matter, miqva’ot throughout history, is their sheer size, at least in some of the preserved installations. How do we explain their unique monumentality? As a testimony of DOI:  10.4324/9781003440499-3

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  87

Figure 2.1  Miqveh foundation plaque, 1185/86, Am Synagogenplatz 4, Worms, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

male authority that comes to the fore in the literature of Hasidei Ashkenaz? Or rather as a sign of agency, if the pools are understood as a space where mostly women would perform their piety, countering and perhaps even competing with the male members of the community? It is primarily in the context of gender that I examine these installations as key examples of women’s identity markers, where the private and public domains of Jewish life intersect. The Jews of Ashkenaz Medieval Ashkenaz is usually understood to have spread from the Rhineland to the confluence of the Elbe and Saale rivers in Germany toward the region north of the Loire basin in France. Though the Ashkenazic world developed its own unique cultural and religious traditions, regular interactions and significant ties existed with the Jewry of Provence, Spain, and Italy. German and French rabbinic traditions (minhagim) and law (halakhot) developed in different directions. French intellectual activity was more commentarial and school-based, whereas German activity was more legal and court-based. We do not, however, have sufficient data on regional traditions of ritual purity practices to assess their impact on the architectural style of miqva’ot, specifically as regards the chronological focus of this study—beginning in the tenth century and ending with the Black Death in the year 1348. The French and German communities of Ashkenaz were overall bound by

88  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz the same historical context, an interconnected literary heritage, similar social experiences, and, most significantly, a shared religious and pious outlook. These close ties were due to both familial relations and bonds of discipleship, as evidenced by the numerous examples of scholars and students traveling back and forth between the two regions.5 Generally speaking, this was a time of urban growth and cultural renaissance in the surrounding Christian culture, a context that also affected Jews favorably. The latter prospered economically, with trading opportunities developing and multiple centers of Jewish learning and teaching being established. Yet, throughout most of the High Middle Ages (1050–1300), the Jews of Ashkenaz suffered from sporadic persecutions, most notably during the First Crusade of 1096, affecting primarily the communities along the Rhine River. Additional outbreaks of violence occurred during the following centuries. In spite of these persecutions, however, Jewish life persisted and continued to flourish. As a result of the financial crises, food shortages, and political unrest that emerged during the fourteenth century, Jewish communities experienced a decline, leading to their economic collapse as well as a loss of physical security. In the early fourteenth century, the Jews of France were driven out. After being readmitted for a brief period, they were decisively expelled in 1394. A similar fate fell upon the Jews of Germany, who were ousted during the period of the Black Death (1348–1350). Though some returned at a later point, the majority moved eastward, joining Jewish communities in Poland.6 Among the most defining characteristics of both medieval Jewish and Christian life in medieval northern Europe was a fascination with piety, associated with beliefs and practices that increasingly formed their distinct identities. Relevant with regard to shaping gender norms, the practice of ritual immersion invites us to explore the development of both the installations and the associated meaning and performance of purity. Similar to the medieval literature of Ashkenaz, which abounds with issues on purity and impurity, the ritual pools themselves are also anchored, conceptually and structurally, in an ancient tradition. Examining ritual immersion and miqva’ot in Germany and northern France in light of their ancient and late antiquity antecedents, in particular in Palestine, is thus essential. Of added interest is a brief comparative survey of contemporary medieval structures within Europe, as is a short discussion of miqva’ot in Germany beyond the narrow limits of the chronological focus group. Miqveh or Jews’ Bath? Despite the remarkable similarity between Jewish ritual pools of ancient Palestine and those of medieval Ashkenaz and other European communities, and finally, with the countless modern and contemporary installations around the world which closely resemble the installations from the past, there are several noteworthy differences regarding their functional and structural foundations as well as their nomenclature. To avoid unwarranted confusion the terms miqveh and ritual pool or installation are used here interchangeably, in reference to the original ancient structures as well as the medieval and modern pools. Nonetheless, etymological

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  89 clarifications on the origins and development of the term miqveh will be useful to appreciate the relevant binaries between tradition and change, continuity and innovation. The word miqveh first appears in the bible and simply defines a “gathering,” generally of water.7 For instance, in the creation narrative of Genesis (1:10) we read, “God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering of waters (miqveh) He called Seas.” It was not until the Roman period that rabbis used the term miqveh (in M. and T. Miqva’ot) to describe situations that would validate or invalidate the waters used for ritual immersions. While these texts are very specific with regard to the quality of the water (differentiating among six levels of spring or rainwater) and the minimal required quantity (40 se’ah, estimated to correspond anywhere between 400 and 1000 liters), the earlier (Tannaitic) sources seem to apply the term miqveh to both natural cavities or bodies as well as to built or artificial installations. It appears that it is only in the later Talmudic sources that the term increasingly and mostly refers to the built pool.8 In medieval Ashkenaz, ritual immersion and pools are mentioned in halakhic responsa, including Sefer Hasidim (Book of the Pious, a text by Judah ben Samuel of Regensburg), in ritual books, books of commandments (sifrei mizvot), and in biblical and Talmudic commentaries.9 Similarly to the Talmudic texts, these medieval sources distinguish between water that wells up from the ground and water that has fallen from rain. Regardless of whether water collects in a natural body of water or in an artificial installation, both were considered valid for the use of ritual immersion. The fact that the authors of the rabbinic responsa were aware of the difference between the pools in Palestine and their medieval structures seems apparent, as they referred to them as “all of our miqva’ot in the land of Ashkenaz” or just simply as “our miqva’ot.”10 Among the non-Jewish sources, the term “Frauenbad” (women’s bath), particularly significant with regard to my gender-related inquiry, appears in documents from the fourteenth century onward.11 Other official documents from the High Middle Ages through modern times refer to miqva’ot as “Tauche” (plunge bath), within certain regions as “Duck/Tuck” (regional variation of plunge bath), “Judenbad” (Jews’ bath), “Judentunke” (Jews’ dipping pool), “Kellerquellenbad” (cellar spring-fed pool), or “kaltes Bad” (cold bath).12 Complicating matters in distinguishing miqva’ot from simple bathing installations is the fact that as of the Synod of Vienna, 1267, Jews were no longer allowed to use the same bathhouses as Christians. Thus, from the thirteenth century onward, Jewish communities began to establish their own separate bathhouses, which were not used for ritual purposes, but which in the non-Jewish sources can also be referred to as “Judenbad.”13 As a result, there are numerous uncertainties with regard to the nature of some installations located within Jewish neighborhoods, particularly when mentioned in texts only. The most significant drawback when consulting literary references or descriptions as a foundation for installations identified as miqva’ot, is that the texts available to us only discuss practical issues that relate to halakhic questions. Almost none of them—whether biblical, Talmudic, or medieval—describe the actual installations.

90  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz To understand the emergence and development of miqva’ot, I would like to briefly address their function. Biblical accounts link bathing (rachaz) and laundering (chabess) to notions of ritual purity and impurity. The same holds for ritual immersion (tvilah) as it appears in Talmudic and post-Talmudic periods. The concept of purity is described in great length in Leviticus and Numbers and is related to the various regulations addressing sacrifices in the Jerusalem temple.14 To perform a sacrifice and in order to access the temple one had to be ritually pure. Methods for purifying people, clothing, and vessels that had become impure depended on the source of contamination and whether the wearer was a woman or a man; the relevant methods changed over time. After the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, ritual purity laws and regulations pertaining to sacrifices were no longer relevant. Nevertheless, purity concerns— in particular with regard to bodily emissions and secretions as well as sexual relations between women and men—persisted beyond the end of the Second Temple period and remained closely linked to the continued practice of ritual immersion. As this institution evolved in the late Amoraic and post-Talmudic periods, culminating in the medieval period, halakhic sources increasingly treated the immersion of the niddah (the “menstruating woman,” literally, the “one who is excluded” or “expelled”) as the focus of the ritual. Despite the persistent references to the original biblical concept of ritual purity and impurity in post-70 CE contexts, throughout antiquity and the Middle Ages, the modes of removal of impurity through full-body immersion varied. Countless ancient, late antique, medieval, modern, and contemporary traditions and variations can be noted in the literary sources that describe the practice as well as among the surviving miqva’ot. The most relevant conceptual and structural distinction of medieval miqva’ot in Ashkenaz is that they were all supplied by groundwater, also known as ma’ajan.15 This is unique both in comparison to ancient and late antique miqva’ot in Palestine as well as in contrast to early modern miqva’ot in Germany which were almost exclusively supplied by rainwater.16 This practical distinction between miqva’ot fed by groundwater and those fed by rainwater is rooted in Talmudic discussions regarding the viability of the kind of water used for immersion. Water that is considered valid can come from the earth, a spring, a pond, a lake, the sea, or under certain circumstances, a river. Rainwater that collects in a cavity that can be either natural (i.e., a puddle or a cave) or built (that is a pool), however, can also be an acceptable source. Despite the structural resemblance between ancient and late antique miqva’ot in Palestine and the medieval miqva’ot in Europe, it is likely if not certain that the builders and those who used the pools in Ashkenaz of the High Middle Ages had no access to earlier versions. The knowledge of former traditions of ritual immersion was exclusively based on the reading and understanding of biblical and Talmudic texts. How relevant the medieval interpretations of a small community of pietists were to Jewish medieval society at large, however, remains uncertain. Furthermore, it is not known to what extent these pietists determined the construction of the actual miqva’ot and how they impacted the behavior of their users, not

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  91 to mention their interaction with those who abstained from immersing in the pools when and as required by halakhah. Between Public and Private Spheres Those who have written about the history of the archaeological exploration of miqva’ot in Israel usually begin with Yigael Yadin’s discovery of a stepped and plastered pool at Masada on the Dead Sea in 1964.17 In reality, it was Félix de Saulcy in 1864, a French numismatist, who conducted the first excavation in Jerusalem. He uncovered the so-called Tomb of the Kings and exposed two water installations located at the bottom of the grand staircase leading to the courtyard that were all part of a larger burial complex. He interpreted them as cisterns, and it would be a century before they were recognized for their characteristic features of ancient Jewish ritual pools.18 Indeed, the idea to bring an archaeological discovery into dialogue with Jewish halakhah did not arise until Yadin invited Rabbi David Muntzberg to inspect the installation he uncovered on top of King Herod’s legendary palacefortress.19 Its identity as a Jewish ritual pool conforming to the religious legal principles of a rainwater-based miqveh was then halakhically confirmed and soon led to similar appraisals of more than 160 installations in Jerusalem (Figure 2.2), both in the area to the south and southwest of the Herodian Temple Mount, as well as within the domestic structures of the Jewish Quarter. Since then, roughly some

Figure 2.2  Jerusalem, Roman-period miqveh. Photo by Joe Goldberg. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Mikvah_-​_goldberg​.jpg.

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Figure 2.3  Usha, Roman-period miqveh, Israel. Photo by Shual. Public Domain. https:// commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Ancient​_Usha_-​_Mikveh​.jpg.

1000 miqva’ot in Israel, Jordan, and the West Bank have been excavated and studied (Figure 2.3), ranging in date between the late Hellenistic (or Hasmonean) era (late second century BCE) and the late Byzantine period (early seventh century CE). The first systematic study, conducted by Ronny Reich in the 1980s, led to numerous additional evaluations since, which corrected his initial impression of a sharp decline in the number of these pools following the destruction of the Herodian Temple in 70 CE.20 Their continued use throughout the Bar Kokhba Revolt (132– 135 CE), and even beyond, into late antiquity, has been established based on excavations conducted throughout the region, in particular at sites where a Jewish presence could be documented beyond the said miqva’ot. The standard design of these installations consists of a stepped pool hewn into the bedrock, only occasionally with masonry-built components, usually for the roof, and in some cases for the entire structure. Other than the steps, which vary greatly in number and size from one installation to another, the hydraulic plaster is one of the most characteristic features of these pools. Since the ceiling or roof has been preserved in only a few cases, the complete original design of these pools remains within the realm of the speculative. The general assumption, however, is that these were modest installations located for the most part in basements, on the ground floor, or in shared domestic courtyards. The size of these stepped pools varies greatly and includes small versions of no more than 130 gallons (500 liters), which could accommodate the full-body immersion of just one individual at a time or small objects. These smaller pools are usually found within domestic contexts, such as the early Roman period installations uncovered in the Herodian houses in the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem, or the late Roman houses on the Western Hilltop in Sepphoris in the Galilee.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  93 Miqva’ot to which a more communal or public function was assigned—those associated with the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the ones uncovered at Qumran near the Dead Sea, or still others found on burial grounds, or near agricultural installations, notably winepresses and olive presses—could also be quite modest in size (Figure 2.3), but were mostly larger, while some were enormous (the largest known pools held up to 79,000 gallons (300,000 liters)).21 The most common type of miqveh is the smaller version. While some miqva’ot are associated with synagogues from the Second Temple period, including at Masada, Herodium, and Gamla, very few are located near synagogues built after 70 CE, with the exception of a number of late Roman and Byzantine period Samaritan synagogues.22 A gap of over 400 years separates the late Byzantine period miqva’ot in the southern Levant and other contemporary miqva’ot found at various sites throughout the Mediterranean region from the earliest medieval miqva’ot in Ashkenaz. In contrast to our knowledge of ancient and late antique Jewish ritual pools, which derives primarily from twenty- and twenty-first-century excavations, the interest in medieval miqva’ot begins as early as the sixteenth century, giving place to sustained scholarly attention to this subject beginning in the nineteenth century. A reference to the Friedberg miqveh as a curiosity of the past, for instance, appears in a narrative by engraver, etcher, and book dealer Matthäus Merian (1593–1650). He observes, “In the Jews’ Alley there is a very old monument of a wonderfully wide fountain … The Jews leased it for a sum of money for their traditional superstitious cleansing ritual.”23 By the nineteenth century, knowledge concerning Jewish ritual pools had spread beyond the first group of physicians who wrote about their hygienic concerns and hence informed the broader public about their existence. Thus, during construction work in 1885 a medieval miqveh in Regensburg, for instance, was uncovered and immediately recognized as such. The installation was assumed to be related to a synagogue destroyed in 1519, at the time when the city’s Jewish community was expelled.24 The earliest proper excavation of a miqveh was carried out in 1956 by archaeologist Otto Deppelfeld in Cologne, followed by the exposure of the Worms and Speyer miqva’ot in the 1980s, and then several further archaeological discoveries, which have continued to the present. In the early 1990s, this fieldwork led to the first systematic study of miqva’ot, centered around an exhibition on the history and architecture of Jewish ritual pools in Germany at the Jewish Museum of Frankfurt am Main in 1992. A comprehensive catalog included the first analysis of partially or fully preserved, discovered, or rediscovered ritual pools.25 The most recent recognition of the ShUM cities (Speyer, Worms, and Mainz), as World Heritage Sites by UNESCO, including their synagogues and miqva’ot along with other private and public structures, has contributed to the visibility of Germany’s significant Jewish medieval heritage.26 Noteworthy also is a collaborative project conducted by Katrin Keßler and Ronny Reich between 2011–2014, dedicated to surveying all of Germany’s Jewish ritual pools. The preliminary reports document 2840 miqva’ot, which range in date between the Middle Ages and the present (Figure 2.4).27

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Figure 2.4  Jewish ritual baths in Germany from the Middle Ages until 1945. Drawn by Régis Péan after Keßler, “The Jewish Ritual Bath in Germany,” 54.

According to this study, Germany’s medieval installations include 14 monumental structures in different states of condition; seven further installations that may have served as ritual baths; an additional 84 that are mentioned in archives, and finally another 58 cases where it is unclear if the archival records refer to actual miqva’ot or regular bathhouses used by Jews for secular purposes.28

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  95 Conceptually, the one unifying aspect of medieval miqva’ot in Ashkenaz is the fact that they were all supplied by groundwater, and the masonry—at least the lower courses that would be immersed under the maximum water level— allowed for water to seep through. Given the variety that exists with regard to the setting, size, and architectural features, scholars have distinguished among the “monumental miqveh,” the “cellar miqveh,” and the “kelim (vessel) miqveh.”29 Though this classification still holds for some ritual pools from medieval Ashkenaz, several recent discoveries call this typological division into question. One problem concerns the assumed parallel development of the monumental and the cellar-type miqva’ot.30 Another relates to a group of pools that seemingly conform to the halakhic requirements of a miqveh but that don’t otherwise fit any of the previously proposed categories. Finally, the proposed functional distinctions among different types of miqva’ot necessitate that classification to be revisited. The monumental miqveh type has been understood to encompass large structures where the actual immersion pool is located at the bottom of a shaft, which can be accessed either through an internal or an external staircase. These larger installations would have served a public role alongside a synagogue, and sometimes a warm bath, a dance or wedding hall, a bakery, an inn, and/or a hospice.31 The cellar miqveh is described as an installation that can be accessed from the basement or courtyard of a dwelling and is believed to have functioned in a more private context, serving one or several families usually living within the same building or neighborhood. Other than the domestic context, it is the small size and the simple construction without architectural details that are identified as distinguishing features.32 Unlike the two former miqveh types that could accommodate the ritual immersion of at least one person, the kelim miqveh category encompasses structures that were meant for the purification of vessels and other objects. The most distinctive feature for this group is the lack of steps or staircases that would accommodate easy access to the bottom of the pool.33 Only a few miqva’ot relevant to the study have survived. A detailed presentation of the individual structures is feasible and can provide the basis for a discussion of gender. This survey does not include installations whose identification as Jewish ritual pools is controversial nor miqva’ot exclusively mentioned in the literature. The descriptive survey will be followed by a typological, chronological, and functional analysis. The earliest known miqveh of medieval Ashkenaz, and among the more notable examples in terms of size and architectural details, is the one in Speyer (in Rhineland Palatinate). Here, the Jewish Quarter, or Judenhof, documented as early as the eleventh century, was located southwest of the cathedral (Figure 2.5). The Jewish community in the city seems to have lived here until their expulsion in 1534. Speyer’s synagogue was built in 1100, with a women’s synagogue added in 1354 (Figure 2.6). Both buildings, made of the local red sandstone, remained intact until 1900. Today only their eastern walls have survived.

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Figure 2.5  Plan of Speyer’s medieval Jewish Quarter, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 27.

Figure 2.6  Speyer’s synagogues with men’s synagogue (right) built in 1100 and women’s synagogue (left) built in 1354, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  97 The miqveh in Speyer was built soon after the construction of the community’s synagogue. Mentioned in texts from 1126/28, it may have been built as early as 1110, or soon after the construction of the cathedral was completed in 1109.34 Since Jews were not allowed to join stonemason guilds, the similar architectural details of the cathedral and the miqveh—in particular with regard to the column capitals— may be proof that the same workshop executed both building projects.35 In this example of monumental miqveh, a long external vaulted staircase leads to a cross-vaulted anteroom decorated with typical Romanesque columns (Figure 2.7). This space was likely used as a dressing room. The attached, nearly circular niche to its east, may have served for the storage of robes. On the opposite, western side of the anteroom, one can access a semicircular, vaulted space by way of an external staircase that connects with the pool shaft. The bottom of the installation is located some nine meters below the ground. The niches placed within the walls were used for lamps. The anteroom and pool shaft are separated by a biforium, a wall perforated with windows (Figure 2.8). It allowed for potential observers and/or light to penetrate the deep and dark pool area, or, as recently argued, the opening above the shaft may have illuminated both the shaft area with the pool as well as the dark anteroom.36 The steps leading into the pool (Figure 2.9) could accommodate various water levels that seeped through the visibly larger joints of the lower masonry courses.

Figure 2.7  Speyer miqveh, section and plan, c. 1110, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Heuberger, Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland, 28.

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Figure 2.8  Biforium of Speyer miqveh, c. 1100, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

Figure 2.9  Speyer miqveh pool, c. 1100, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  99 The installation remained in use until the expulsion of the last members of Speyer’s Jewish community in 1534.37 Based on excavations carried out between 1965 and 1968, it has been suggested that the brick installation added on top of the miqveh in the late fourteenth century served as a warm bath, used prior to immersion in the ritual pool’s cold water.38 Until recently, the Jewish Quarter of Cologne (in North-Rhine Westphalia), near the current city hall, has been at the center of a controversy regarding the unfounded claim of a continued Jewish presence from antiquity through the Middle Ages.39 The most recent excavations, launched in 2007 and spanning an area of approximately 4500 square meters, have established beyond doubt that the earliest synagogue in Cologne was built during the first half of the eleventh century.40 Four subsequent phases, including the addition of a women’s synagogue in the thirteenth century, could be documented. The abandonment of the city in 1424, mentioned in a text, could also be corroborated by the archaeological findings. No other material or iconographic evidence of a Jewish presence prior to the eleventh century has emerged, lending further credence to the theory that Cologne’s Jewish community—like others within this region—emerged during the High Middle Ages and flourished long after antiquity, when Jews were reported to have lived within the region. In addition to Cologne’s medieval miqveh, located immediately to the south of the synagogue (Figure 2.10), archaeologists have identified a warm

Figure 2.10  Plan of Cologne’s medieval Jewish Quarter, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Heuberger, Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland, 26.

100  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz bath, a bakery, a dance or wedding hall, and finally a hospice, all of which could be accessed from a shared courtyard. This area is defined in the sources as Cologne’s Jewish Quarter and is mentioned for the first time between 1056 and 1075. The earliest reference to the miqveh, however, dates to 1270. Based on the archaeological evidence, the original construction of the red sandstone installation occurred during the second half of the twelfth century.41 Architecturally, the Cologne ritual pool corresponds well to the monumental miqveh type with internal staircase (Figures 2.11a and 2.11b). Access today is granted through a modern staircase, which like the original one leads into a rectangular anteroom, as in Speyer, possibly used as a dressing room.

Figure 2.11  Cologne miqveh, plan and section, second half of twelfth century, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 35.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  101 The original vaulted ceiling is barely visible, but the engaged columns crowned by Romanesque cubic capitals, so typical of this period, are well preserved. Here too, the biforium, between the anteroom and the 15-meter-deep shaft, may have been used to observe the bather, and/or possibly to allow for some dim light to penetrate the shaft, or, on the other hand, light from the shaft oculus may have illuminated both the pool shaft and the anteroom.42 Small niches along the walls held lamps. The stairs, initially external to the shaft, then breaching through it from the south, lead along its four sides into the bottommost section, located within the pool proper. The last series of steps could accommodate the altering water depth in the pool, which varied according to the Rhine’s water levels. As the third known monumental installation built in twelfth-century Ashkenaz, the Worms miqveh (in Rhineland Palatinate) also postdates the construction of the synagogue by more than a century.43 Here, the Jewish Quarter was established on the periphery of the town not far from the city wall. The construction of the earliest synagogue occurred in 1034, replaced by a new building in 1174/75. As in Speyer, a women’s synagogue was added in the thirteenth century (Figure 2.12), with the precise date of 1212/13 recorded in a text. For the miqveh, a dedicatory inscription mentions the date of its construction: 1185/86, namely ten years after the construction of the new synagogue (Figure 2.1).44 The medieval installation was abandoned and covered up in the nineteenth

Figure 2.12  The restored women’s section of the Worms synagogue seen via the arch that connects it with the men’s section. Photo by Katharina Galor.

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Figure 2.13  Worms miqveh plan and section, 1185/86, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 320.

century. Several features recall the structure at Speyer: the anteroom as well as the external semicircular vaulted staircase (Figures 2.13a and 2.13b). Opposite the staircase, to the east of the anteroom, a small semicircular niche may have served as storage space for clothes. Between the anteroom and shaft, a biforium consisting of four windows allowed observers to view a person immersing in the pool and/or light to illuminate the bottom of the pool located some seven meters below the surface.45 The decorative details at Worms, however, are significantly simpler than those of the Speyer miqveh.46 Architecturally, the largest and most dramatic of all monumental miqva’ot is at Friedberg (in Hesse; Figure 2.14). An inscription from 1260 mentions Isaak Koblenz as its donor.47 The first literary reference to the miqveh stems only from 1349/50.48 Jews, however, may have lived in the city as early as 1170, when Friedberg was first established.49 Unlike the three monumental miqva’ot from the twelfth century, no other buildings associated with the Jewish community of Friedberg have been uncovered.

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Figure 2.14  Friedberg miqveh section and plan, 1260, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Kingreen, Das Judenbad und die Judengasse in Friedberg, 30.

Accessed via a gothic portal (Figure 2.15) located some five meters underground, this miqveh with its 2350-meter-deep shaft made of sandstone masonry is unique primarily for its great depth. An internal staircase (Figure 2.16) is lined on the inside with arched openings supported by columns (Figure 2.17). These gothicstyle columns, crowned with the chalice capitals so typical of this period, closely resemble those located within the nearby church (specifically within the original choir; Figure 2.18 and Figure 2.19). The style also corroborates the date featured in the dedicatory inscription.50 The markings of the stonemasons found within the two buildings, the miqveh and the church, suggest that the same workshop executed both projects, similar to the situation in Speyer. Interestingly, the first scholarly description from 1829 by Philipp Dieffenbach already identifies the structure as a miqveh and dates it correctly to the thirteenth century.51 After being abandoned in 1349/50, the installation functioned

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Figure 2.15  Friedberg miqveh gothic entrance portal, 1260, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

again as a ritual pool used by the Jews who returned to Friedberg just a few years later. It served its original purpose until 1800, at which point it was replaced by a more modern and comfortable miqveh.52 The other thirteenth-century monumental miqveh is in Andernach (in Rhineland Palatinate) and is architecturally closely related to the Friedberg miqveh.53 Beyond the pointed arches, it is the polygonal chalice capitals that exemplify the contemporary gothic-style construction and decoration. Unusual here is the internal vaulted staircase, which is separated from the pool shaft by a dividing wall with multiple perforations.54 The vaulted space located above the pool shaft—both made of tufa stone masonry—was probably used as a dressing room. A text from 1287 mentions the need to restore the synagogues of the town, suggesting that one was built specifically for the community’s women. Later sources also refer to a bakery. Finally, in 1407 the city’s Jewish buildings, including the miqveh, are documented as being handed over to the Christians.55 Though commonly classified as monumental miqva’ot, the installations uncovered in Erfurt and Strasbourg are relatively more modest in scale and architectural design than the above ritual pools.56 Located at some 200 meters distance from the synagogue, and near the local Gera River (next to the crossing of the Krämerbrücke), the ritual pool at Erfurt (in Thuringia) is a simple structure of average size (3.70 by 1.50 meters). Discovered and then excavated in 2007, the miqveh along with the

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Figure 2.16  Friedberg miqveh shaft with arched openings, 1260, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

synagogue have been proposed as new additions to the World Heritage List.57 Built in a combination of limestone and sandstone ashlars (Figure 2.16), the structure lacks architectural details, with the exception of a sandstone relief on an ashlar visible in the southern interior face of the pool. The carving features a beardless male head with a lily crown positioned upside down, evidently in secondary use.58

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Figure 2.17  Friedberg miqveh close-up of column capital, 1260, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

Figure 2.18  Friedberg church choir, thirteenth century, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

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Figure 2.19  Erfurt miqveh with niche for lamp, view towards northeast, thirteenth century. Photo by Katharina Galor.

The western anteroom may have served as a dressing room.59 From here, a series of eight steps led straight into the actual pool. A small niche in the northern wall was probably meant to hold a lamp to illuminate the space. The wide ashlar joints of the bottom courses as well as the bottom of the pool allowed for the water to seep in.60 Dated to the thirteenth century, with evidence for an earlier installation from the twelfth century, it is documented that the miqveh was destroyed in 1349 along with the rest of the buildings belonging to Erfurt’s Jewish community. In 1472 the bottom part of the pool was filled in and the installation was used as a cellar.61 Typologically equally difficult to place is the thirteenth-century miqveh excavated in Strasbourg (in Alsace, France). Located on 20 rue des Charpentiers, it is one of two medieval miqva’ot that had survived in the city (Figure 2.20).62 Severely damaged upon its discovery in 1885, it was excavated in 1985. Except for the original entrance, which has disappeared, archaeologists were able to reconstruct a roughly square installation (3 by 3 meters), with an internal staircase built along three of the walls (Figure 2.21). Initially used as a ritual pool from the mid-thirteenth century until the Black Death in 1349, the vaulted ceiling was perforated by a circular opening probably in the eighteenth century, when the installation was turned into a well.63 Built partially of yellow and red brick (walls) and partially of sandstone (stairs), the design, with its internal staircase, recalls the Cologne, Friedberg, and Andernach pools.64 The overall simplicity of the structure (Figure 2.22),

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Figure 2.20  Plan of Strasbourg’s medieval Jewish Quarter, France. Drawn by Régis Péan after Waton, “Des bains juifs à Strasbourg,” 56.

Figure 2.21  Strasbourg miqveh plan, thirteenth century, France. Drawn by Régis Péan after Weyl and Weyl, “La fresque de la cour du bain des juifs,” 375.

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Figure 2.22  Strasbourg miqveh shaft and pool, thirteenth century, France. Photo by Katharina Galor.

the proximity to the surface, and the lack of architectural detail, however, are closer to the Erfurt installation. Only two installations commonly classified as cellar miqva’ot—one in Sondershausen (in Thuringia) and the other in Bamberg (in Bavaria)—enter into the chronological frame of this study. Both were built around 1300. The former was partially destroyed during the pogroms in the mid-fourteenth century (to be later rebuilt as a well); the latter went out of use around 1500.65 Following its chance discovery, the installation in Sondershausen was excavated between 1999 and 2000.66 Located near the city wall (built between the late thirteenth and the mid-fourteenth century), the installation is made of roughly shaped limestone masonry blocks (Figure 2.23 and Figure 2.24). Trapezoidal in shape, its dimensions are modest in size (1.40 to 1.60 meters long by 1.25 meters wide; Figure 2.25). The bottom pool can be reached via a staircase, beginning with four steps and concluding with three additional ones after turning at a 90-degree angle. A small protrusion near the bottom of the staircase served to hold either robes or a lamp. Given the lack of other contemporary structures or sources that attest to a medieval Jewish presence in the town, it is the resemblance to other later cellar miqva’ot that justified its identification as a ritual pool. The installation in Bamberg, equally near the city wall, can be accessed by way of a straight staircase consisting of 15 steps (Figure 2.26).67 The pool, located just below the groundwater level, is positioned perpendicular to the east of the staircase.

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Figure 2.23  Area plan of medieval Sondershausen, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Nicol and Walter, “Ritualbades in Sondershausen,” 196.

Figure 2.24  Sondershausen miqveh plan, c. 1300, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Nicol and Walter, “Ritualbades in Sondershausen,” 199.

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Figure 2.25  Sondershausen cellar miqveh, c. 1300, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

Both the pool and staircase walls were covered with sandstone slabs. Traces of the original brick and stone vault above the staircase are still visible. Speculations about the existence of a ritual pool in Nürnberg (in Bayern), which would have predated the pogrom of 1298, is based on some inconclusive text that mentions the local Jews’ “community bath.”68 Bordering the river Pegnitz, but outside the boundaries of the Jewish Quarter, a structure interpreted as a kelim miqveh built around 1250 has been uncovered. The installation is located in the cellar of a residential building. Supplied by groundwater and equipped with a wooden insert of uncertain date, it can be accessed via four stone steps.69 Equally speculative is the function of a 25-meter-deep shaft with traces of a former wooden podium, uncovered in Goslar (in Niedersachsen). Dated to the second half of the twelfth century, the installation coincides with the period during which Jews lived in the town. Here too, as in Nürnberg, the pool lies outside the area identified as Goslar’s medieval Jewish Quarter.70 These installations, along with several other pools ranging in date between the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, have been examined in light of a miniature illumination from a Spanish Passover Haggadah dated to around 1300 (Figure 2.27). The image features three women, standing on platforms and immersing vessels in a pool.71 While kelim miqva’ot are mentioned in the texts, we may assume that vessels, if sufficiently small, could also be purified in miqva’ot which were used for human immersion. Further discoveries of installations identified as miqva’ot—most among them of doubtful identity—and the growing interest in the Jewish heritage of medieval

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Figure 2.26  Bamberg miqveh plan, c. 1300, Germany. Drawn by Régis Péan after Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 326.

Ashkenaz more generally, and specifically in Germany, have broadened our understanding of these pools in recent years. Detailed archaeological reports, architectural analyses, and art-historical evaluations, also in relation to contemporary ecclesiastic building initiatives, have allowed for a more nuanced understanding of Jewish ritual pools, their original dates of construction, building sequences, alterations, repairs, the length of usage, or dates of destruction. In some cases, scientific methods have made it possible to narrow down and verify the dating of building phases. Increased attention to detail and individual installations within their specific historical and architectural contexts enable us to reassess existing models of interpretations. Based on a review of the available data, I would like to correct the proposed typological, chronological, and functional models of interpretation. Evoking the medieval miqva’ot of Ashkenaz, it is primarily the monumental miqva’ot of Cologne, Speyer, Worms, Friedberg, and Andernach that come to mind as representative of the great literary accomplishments of Hasidei Ashkenaz and the religious impact they had on future generations of Jewish life. Without undermining their unique architectural signature, it is important to contextualize the relatively short-lived phenomenon of this group of imposing ritual installations and to consider the more modest ritual pools of Erfurt and Strasbourg built contemporaneously. The suggestion that the first cellar miqva’ot were typological variants that developed parallel to the monumental miqveh type cannot be substantiated by the archaeological findings.72 The earliest installations interpreted as cellar miqva’ot were uncovered in Sondershausen and in Bamberg and are dated

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Figure 2.27  Three women immersing vessels in a pool. Illuminated manuscript of a Hispano-Moresque Haggadah, c. 1300, Spain. British Library London, ms. Or. 2737, fol. 90r. Courtesy of the British Library London.

to around 1300, thus postdating the construction of the aforementioned mid-sized and monumental miqva’ot. Typologically, the monumental and cellar miqva’ot are thus to be understood as chronologically sequential building types. Other historically noteworthy facts: while numerous synagogues—among them the region’s most important ones—were built in the eleventh century, none of the installations identified as miqva’ot appear to have been built prior to the twelfth century. Furthermore, some among the monumental miqva’ot of Ashekenaz may have been used throughout the High and Late Middle Ages and beyond. Yet, they ceased to be built after the thirteenth century, a typological change that may be related, at least partially, to the general architectural trend, which saw an end of monumental Romanesque constructions.73 Chronologically, we can thus assume

114  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz that individuals who observed the practice of ritual immersion during the eleventh century relied exclusively on natural bodies of water (such as the Usa in Friedberg or the Gera in Erfurt). From the twelfth century onward both natural bodies of water as well as built installations served this purpose. Whereas until around 1300, immersion in a ritual pool would entail access by way of a public space, once the first cellar miqva’ot were built, ritual immersion could take place within the private confines of a domestic space. Despite the demonstrated structural changes over time and the assumed developments of practices, the miqva’ot alone, even with evidence from images and texts, cannot resurrect fully the reality of Jewish life in all its nuances. As has been argued with regard to miqva’ot from the time of the Talmud, it may be an easy task to identify installations that according to the rabbi’s rules would have qualified as valid miqva’ot—sometimes even regardless of whether they were built or used as such. This, however, does not rule out the possibility that some or even many pools used for ritual immersion of individuals and objects did not conform to the halakhic requirements.74 Additionally, assuming that ritual pools were used for ritual immersion exclusively can neither be substantiated by the texts nor the archaeological remains.75 The functional diversity and flexibility of miqva’ot in antiquity as explicitly discussed in the Talmud is no doubt applicable to medieval miqva’ot as well. In other words, the exclusive use of miqva’ot for ritual immersion is likely a practice that only emerged in the nineteenth century, at a time when scientists started to establish a link between contaminated waters and disease. Examining the medieval miqva’ot of Ashkenaz through the lens of a much broader geographical and temporal scope can provide some valuable insights, establishing both parallels and differences with installations from other places and eras. One singularity for the group of miqva’ot presented here is that no other region within Europe has brought to light ritual pools that are as monumental as the ones associated with Ashkenaz, and no other country beyond Germany has revealed a similarly high concentration of miqva’ot. Noteworthy but relatively isolated examples that attest to the widespread custom of building these installations include the eleventh-century miqva’ot in Rouen, France, or those in London and Bristol, England,76 the eleventh-/twelfth-century installation in Besalú (Figure 2.28) in northern Spain,77 two thirteenth-century miqva’ot in southern France, one in Montpellier (Figure 2.29) and the other in Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux,78 two fourteenth-century miqva’ot, one in Sopron, Hungary, and the other in Carpentras (Figure 2.30), France. The integration of the miqveh within a larger complex that also includes a synagogue is documented in a few singular cases. The Rouen and the Carpentras miqva’ot are among the rare exceptions.79 The evidence from contemporary Europe thus establishes the distinctiveness of the Ashkenazi miqva’ot of the High Middle Ages. The argument that the large number of medieval miqva’ot in Germany stems from the fact that the destruction in other European countries was more severe is hardly convincing.80 Perhaps one should instead credit German researchers and funding sources for their dedication to uncovering and studying these testimonies

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Figure 2.28  Miqveh Besalú, Spain, twelfth century. Photo by Arie Darzi. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:14440​_The​_mikve​_in​_besalu​.jpg​ ?uselang​=fr.

of pre-war Jewish life, and for thus indirectly taking responsibility for the leading role the Nazi regime played in damaging and destroying most of Germany’s and Europe’s Jewish heritage. Another possibility is that the communities of medieval Ashkenaz simply produced and used these installations more than any other contemporary community, and that what we see—at least proportionally—represents what there was. The medieval miqva’ot of Germany may simply be the very best proof we have that the writings and concerns of Hasidei Ashkenaz, as reflected in the sources, were more relevant for and indicative of the practices and beliefs of the Jews who lived within this region than has often been assumed. Perhaps much more so than the Talmudic texts, which are commonly viewed as representing only an elite or marginal subgroup among the Jewish communities who lived in ancient Palestine and Babylonia. The unique data set of miqva’ot from Ashkenaz may simply be a result of both their substantial number in the Middle Ages and the close and sustained attention paid to them by scholars. This brings us to another, related aspect of interest regarding these installations. Beginning in the nineteenth century, German authorities and doctors, as part of general efforts to improve sanitation and hygiene practices, warned about the negative impact on women’s health when immersing in the cold and dirty waters of miqva’ot. Structural changes occurred around this time, replacing the earlier pools fed by groundwater with pools fed by rainwater. The newly built installations

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Figure 2.29  Miqveh, Montpellier, France, thirteenth century. Photo by Bruno Barral. Public Domain. https://fr​.wikipedia​.org​/wiki​/Bain​_rituel​_juif​_de​_Montpellier#​/ media​/Fichier​:Mik​veMo​ntpe​llie​rEte2022​_1​.jpg.

Figure 2.30  Miqveh, Carpentras, France, fourteenth century. Photo by Marianne Casamance. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:IA84000645_-​_ Synagogue​_de​_Carpentras_-​_Mekve2​.jpg.

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Figure 2.31  Weisenau cellar miqveh, c. 1760, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

allowed for improved conditions in the quality and also the temperature of the water. The discovery of two adjacent miqva’ot at Weisenau, near Frankfurt (in Hesse), exemplify this structural transition. Here, a cellar miqveh fed by groundwater from around 1760 (Figure 2.31) was replaced by a more modern version supplied by rainwater sometime in the second half of the nineteenth century (Figure 2.32). This second miqveh, less deep and not conforming to halakhic regulations, was clearly easier to warm and replenish with clean water.81 Unlike the ancient and late antique miqva’ot of Judea-Palestine—which remained buried until the beginning of archaeological explorations—the medieval miqva’ot of Ashkenaz were recognized as testimonies of Jewish rituals of earlier times by the sixteenth century at the latest. Repeated pogroms and persecutions, however, destroyed or at least covered over the traces of numerous medieval ritual pools. The most recent wave of systematic destruction of miqva’ot occurred during the time of the Nazis. And while the majority among them were destroyed throughout Germany, the fate of at least one significant monument, the miqveh of Friedberg, illustrates the convoluted complexities of heritage perceptions. It was on the order of Heinrich Himmler himself, Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel, and one of the principal architects of the Holocaust, that the so-called Judenbad was inspected. In 1941, he sent Professor Wilhelm Pfannenstiel, an advisory hygienist to the SS, who concluded, “[T]hough the Judenbad in Friedberg served as a Jewish cult place up until 140 years ago, it still qualifies as a German building … that given its noble construction and elaborate style deserves to be preserved.”82

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Figure 2.32  Weisenau cellar miqveh, second half of nineteenth century, Germany. Photo by Katharina Galor.

Most other medieval miqva’ot, however, were wrecked and shattered along with synagogues and other physical reminders of Germany’s thriving Jewish culture. It is only in recent decades that the numerous excavations and preservation measures taken of these Jewish ritual pools allow for a comprehensive architectural and arthistorical evaluation. Let us once more return to the medieval installations of Ashkenaz and conclude with a summary of the physical structures brought to life through the analysis of a visual illustration of the ritual. Despite the limited data we have with regard to the superstructures of the preserved ritual pools, two different kinds of installations can be identified:83 the “public miqveh,” including all large- and mediumsized installations built during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, which served the community, and the “domestic miqveh,” located in the cellars or courtyards of houses. While the architectural and urban contexts of most of these pools is lost, the evidence suggests that the former type was a free-standing structure located in a public setting within or near the nucleus of the Jewish community’s other public structures. The latter type was most likely located within the basement or courtyard of a dwelling used by one or multiple families in a more private setting. As the domestic miqveh was introduced around 1300, some public miqva’ot continued to serve the community. The domestic type, however, gradually replaced the public installations, and by the late Middle Ages, established itself as the norm. This typological change, which occurred toward the beginning of the fourteenth century and coincides with the end of the Hasidei Ashkenaz movement, can be

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  119 interpreted in different but perhaps not unrelated ways. It can be viewed as an urban manifestation of the worsening of the situation of the Jews. That is, the architectural features of the miqveh—even more so than the synagogue a Jewish identity marker par excellence—became more discrete over time. It can also be read as a response to changing religious practices in which the status of ritual purity—and the latter’s implications for gender, sexuality, and fertility—gradually moved away from the public to the private sphere. In other words, rather than being defined and controlled by the religious authorities and the inspecting gaze of the community, the adherence to ritual purity laws increasingly turned into a family affair. This development, I argue, can be related to the much broader trend observed in Europe during the course of the Middle Ages, when piety was gradually introduced into the routines of domestic lives, and when body rituals began to evolve beyond the communal, increasingly acknowledging the individual.84 Other than the evidence of the pools themselves, the concept of leading a pious life in a more intimate context comes to life in a miniature illuminated manuscript, the Ashkenazi Hamburg Miscellany, which includes a collection of ritual texts dating to around 1428. The relevant illustration (Figure 2.33) appears along the margin of a piyyut (liturgical poem) telling a story recited during Hanukkah, which celebrates the Macabees’ victory over the Hellenistic rulers. It relates the tyrannical decrees brought upon the people of Israel by Antiochus IV Epiphanes, including the ban on ritual circumcision, the command to eat nonkosher meat, and the ius primae noctis, according to which each virgin bride had to lie with the Greek governor before her first intercourse with the groom. The medieval poet, not found in earlier versions of the narrative, adds that Antiochus forbade the women of Israel to immerse themselves in the miqveh. Since ritual purification was considered an essential prerequisite to marital sex, couples had no choice but to renounce intercourse. In recognition of their devotion, so the piyyut continues, God performed a miracle, and each couple was rewarded with their own domestic miqveh.85 The accompanying image features a naked woman immersing herself in what may be one of those domestic miqva’ot, the by then established and dominant type of installation. As she becomes ritually pure, her husband, lying naked in bed and holding a lighted candle, awaits her. The candle has been interpreted by Sarit Shalev-Eyni as a possible phallic or marital symbol, but it may also be simply an indication that the event would have occurred at night. Equally evocative is the positioning of the two different registers that suggest synchronous separation and simultaneity. Both are framed by a double border uniting the couple, but clearly separating them from the town’s houses, visible on the top along the outer border. The husband appears at the top of the image, the wife at the bottom, the different registers possibly corresponding to the buildings’ different levels, with the miqveh located in the cellar and the bedroom in the living area above ground. Another reading would attribute the upper and lower halves of the representation to the established gender hierarchy, emphasizing a husband’s upper hand in controlling his wife’s sexuality or possibly it may even represent male dominance during intercourse. Beyond the suggestive symbolism, however, the illustration clearly and

Figure 2.33  A woman immersing in a cellar miqveh while her husband waits for her to join him in bed. Miniature illuminated manuscript from Ashkenaz, 1427/28. Staats-und Universitätsbibliothek Hamburg cod. Hebr. 37, fol. 79v. Courtesy of the Universitätsbibliothek Hamburg. https://digitalisate​.sub​.uni​-hamburg​.de​/recherche​/detail​?tx​_dlf​%5Bid​%5D​=16265​&tx​_dlf​%5Bpage​%5D​=162​&tx​_dlf​_navigation​ %5Baction​%5D​=main​&tx​_dl​​f​_nav​​igati​​on​%5B​​contr​​oller​​%5D​=N​​aviga​​tion​&cHash​=f17​d084​1360​0237​b08e​76a1​137cfe675.

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Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  121 unequivocally underlines the centrality the laws of niddah held in Jewish society, and how the ritual performance had moved from a communal space to the intimacy of a couple’s domestic sphere and private life.86 From Male to Female Rite How do the physical and visual remnants of the medieval miqva’ot presented and analyzed above inform this inquiry on gender? According to scholars of the biblical texts and the rabbinic commentaries, who used these installations? Why, according to these interpretations, did the act of ritual immersion evolve from a primarily male institution in biblical times, to a practice that included both genders during the late Second Temple period and the Talmudic era, and finally to a custom mostly associated with the female members of the community in the Middle Ages? And finally, to what extent do these sources, individually and in combination, indicate gender norms and signs of agency? Despite the not uncommon conflation of the miqveh with niddah, a textual analysis of how the concepts of purity and impurity evolved from biblical to rabbinic law suggests that significant gender-related changes occurred over time. One of the three biblical commandments that address women explicitly concerns niddah, which is rooted in the word nadad and is translated as “separation” or “being removed.”87 In the Bible, the restrictions concerning the menstruant woman are mostly concerned with maintaining the purity of the Temple cult. The penalty for someone who engages in sexual relations with a niddah is karet, which means his extirpation from the community.88 Additional restrictions addressed in biblical purification includes the zava (a woman who oozes), the baal queri (a man who discharges semen), and the zav (a man who oozes). In Leviticus the impurity of the niddah lasts for seven days and the state of purity is attained automatically without requiring a ritual.89 Following the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, purity laws underwent a dramatic shift, increasingly focusing on purity and impurity as relevant to menstruation and conjugal relations. During the Talmudic period, the Tannaim (rabbinic sages from approximately 20–220 CE) and the Amoraim (rabbinic scholars of the third to sixth centuries CE) added the concept of yemei libun (B. Shabbat 13a–13b), translated as the “days of whitening” and understood as the period a woman has to wait after the end of her cycle, before the purification ritual and prior to resuming physical contact and sexual relations with her husband. By the Middle Ages, practices restricting menstruating women, though shaped by biblical and Talmudic laws, evolved into new traditions that varied greatly from period to period and differed according to region. Despite the influential role of the Hasidei Ashkenaz on contemporary and later legislation of their ritual purity laws, their impact on the actual practices observed by Jewish women and men is uncertain and highly debated among scholars. In a collection of essays on Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law, Tirzah Meacham, Leslie Cook, Charlotte Fonrobert, Shaye Cohen, and Sharon Faye Koren examine how halakhah and other written records may contribute to our knowledge of the changing historical realities among Jewish communities.90 While Cook, in her analysis of women’s rituals of purification in the Bible

122  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz and Mishnah, contends that the custom of niddah allowed women to transcend their biological nature and bring them closer to God, Fonrobert shows how women’s authority and self-control were lost when Talmudic rabbis (300–600 CE) invented a new science and expertise around menstrual blood.91 In a survey of polemics against “incorrect” purification practices from the early twelfth to the early thirteenth century, Cohen concludes that evidence for deviations from rabbinic law by the women of Ashkenaz (as in Spain, Byzantium, and Egypt) should not be viewed as a sign that “their piety was no less sincere and real than that of their rabbinic opponents.”92 Koren, in her assessment of thirteenth-century kabbalist literature and of how it may have shaped contemporary Ashkenazic practice, shows that menstruation is portrayed as an abomination and the source of much human suffering. Kabbalists’ efforts to regulate purity and sexuality, she argues, resulted in defining relations between the genders in terms of a theurgic struggle in the divine unit itself. In this context, Koren shows how menstrual impurity could empower the demonic side.93 Beyond the changing notions of niddah in different literary and historical contexts, Nicole Ruane and Tal Ilan are more specifically concerned with the question of how women and men respectively removed impurity with the actual act of immersion. As Ruane demonstrates in her study of bathing rituals, the biblical context defines the practice of immersion in water mostly as a male privilege and duty.94 In priestly texts, men are required to bathe in relation to consecration ordinations, when partaking in unusual cultic events or in sacrificial rites, or when approaching the altar. More commonly, however, they immerse themselves to counter the state of impurity. According to Leviticus (11–15, 17) and Numbers (19), impurity is contracted from unclean animal carcasses, skin disease, some forms of genital discharge, and corpses; people or objects that carry such impurities can also transmit them to others. According to Ruane, women, unlike men, according to these biblical precepts, are not required to bathe to regain their status of purity. They simply have to wait seven days before returning to the normal status of purity (v. 19).95 Furthermore, they do not have to bathe after noticing genital discharge. Only in one context are women explicitly required to wash themselves, namely after having ejaculatory sexual intercourse with a man (Leviticus 15:18). Generally, the biblical texts that refer to ritual bathing relate only to male sexuality and privilege. Whether women in these contexts are indirectly implied, or mostly excluded from the duty of washing, however, remains controversial.96 Their inferior cultic and societal status, though, is generally assumed and agreed upon among scholars.97 Ilan examines how the concept and act of ritual immersion as a largely male domain in biblical texts evolves in literature from the late Hellenistic and Roman periods.98 She notes that while Second Temple period sources explore how women may contract impurity, such as through childbirth, menstruation, or irregular genital secretion, few texts seem to explicitly mention the requirement of immersion to restore their status of ritual purity. One reference appears in Josephus, and two others in the Dead Sea Scrolls.99 It was not until the Mishnaic period, however— primarily within the context of the Hillel and Shammai debates between the last century BCE and the early first century CE—that women are mentioned regularly with regard to ritual immersion. At this point, ritual bathing for women appears to

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  123 be controversial among the sages, transitioning into a mandatory act only according to Beth Hillel.100 Seemingly, it was under the Tannaim that ritual immersion for women following the monthly cycle establishes itself as the required norm.101 Tractate Miqva’ot can in fact be understood as a written documentation of how this ritual evolved from an all-male institution to a mixed one, ultimately leading to its decline among men.102 Ilan argues that the waning of male immersion during this period is in fact intrinsically tied with the rise of female immersion. In other words, she explains this shift as related to men’s initial attempts to bar women from this domain; after failing to do so, the men begin to seek alternative domains in which to perform acts related to male status.103 Although Ilan’s chronological observations are essential to framing the change as it affected gender norms, her proposed impetus for the shift in gender remains within the domain of speculation. In medieval literature and documents, women become the main focus of all matters dealing with ritual purity. And while persistently anchored in a biblical and post-biblical concept, the practice and performance of ritual immersion define gender and sexuality in completely new ways. In her study on piety in medieval Ashkenaz, Elisheva Baumgarten examines the different roles of Jewish women and men, in particular, as they relate to their Christian neighbors.104 Much of the source material Baumgarten explores is directly relevant to the practice of ritual purity. Her assessment is based primarily on medieval texts, which encompass commentaries on the Bible and Talmud; compendia of halakhic discussions; and formal responses to questions from community members.105 In her study of Jewish mystical sources Koren focuses more on the niddah and how mystical pursuits, specifically as recorded in Hekhalot literature and the Beraita n’Niddah (BdN), influence piety among Ashkenazic communities.106 According to both scholars, performing piety constituted an essential if not the most important moral factor that defined women’s participation in shaping medieval Judaism. An additional relevant resource is official documents written by the Christian authorities, mainly in the Rhineland and northern France, providing evidence for events, regulations, and transactions that pertain to the construction, destruction, or use of ritual pools or bathhouses. It is significant, in particular for the Late Middle Ages, that miqva’ot in these sources are often referred to as “Frauenbad” (women’s bath).107 This perception—though it portrays the view of authors external to the Jewish communities—suggests women’s visible and known participation in this ritual, if not their dominant role in this routine. The most elaborate discussion about ritual purity and immersion in miqva’ot—even if sometimes described as being marginal, radical, or too theoretical to reflect social realities—is in the writings of Hasidei Ashkenaz. Noteworthy among these are the texts attributed to Samuel ben Judah (twelfth century) and two of his students, his son Judah (known as Judah the Pious, d. 1217) and Judah’s student, Eleazar ben Judah of Worms (d. before 1232), in addition to their assumed disciples. Their most influential works include Sefer Hasidim and Sefer ha-Rokeah, which explore how best to lead pious lives and how to demonstrate both fear and awe of God.108 Scholars of medieval Ashkenaz commonly agree upon the fact that the observance of the laws of niddah was one of the central tenets of Jewish identity, and

124  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz thus largely defined gender roles, perceptions, and power politics.109 Various references demonstrate the significance of this biologically defined gender distinction, at least from a male perspective. The necessity of drawing clear boundaries between women and men, in particular when the former are menstruating, seems to be perceived as a divinely sanctioned condition. Eleazar ben Judah, for instance, writes, “Blessed are you … who has sanctified us with his commandments … separating us from impurity and cautioning us to beware of menstruants and (their) discharges.”110 In the Zohar, the most popular work of medieval Kabbalah, God is even described as fleeing or abandoning the woman, as he cannot suffer impurity.111 These boundaries are believed to have had implications for both the public and the domestic spheres of life, where physical and sexual conduct between women and men took on a central role in the concerns of the rabbis. The necessity for a married woman to immerse in a miqveh following her cycle and before resuming physical contact with her husband is addressed repeatedly in the writings of Hasidei Ashkenaz. A woman, according to their views, however, was able to choose to immerse following her state of niddah, including when not being able to resume sexual relations. Peretz ben Elijah, for instance, reports about the daughter of Isaac of Evreux, who is so strict in her observance that she goes to the miqveh at her first opportunity, even when her husband is traveling.112 The restrictions of a woman prior to becoming pure again also pertain to more mundane aspects of life, ranging from the sharing of utensils to baking and cooking. Whether women who are not yet married, divorced, or widowed are equally expected to observe the laws of niddah, however, is not something that appears to have been addressed by the rabbis. While the actual practice of immersion in these medieval writings was seemingly centered around women, the debates about the rituals and behaviors with regard to their monthly cycles, including the most intimate bodily functions, were clearly the domain of men. Women were, naturally, those who experienced menstrual bleeding, its physical and emotional effects, as well as the related customs. And it is likely that they shared these experiences with other women. The rules, and everything surrounding them that required authority, however, were defined and discussed by men—primarily by those who did the writing, but most likely also by other or even most adult male members of the Jewish community. We know, for instance, that Judah the Pious and other medieval rabbis suggested that fathers teach their daughters the laws of niddah rather than entrust their wives with this sacred obligation.113 The status of a niddah, however, was not one that women shared exclusively with their fathers and husbands within the intimacy of their families and households. It was a condition known to the wider public as well. The tradition of having another woman oversee the immersion of another, for instance, is associated with the community surrounding Rabbi Meir ben Baruch of Rothenburg (known as Maharam, d. 1293). This tradition seemingly evolved into the assignment of this supervisory task to a professional representative of the community.114 We also know that women wore bigdei nidut, or special clothes, during their cycle, which differed from their regular attire.115 Some even chose to wear unattractive garments so as not to incite their husbands to sin and to avoid breaking the rules of separation.116 Furthermore, as of the thirteenth century, women who were niddah were

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  125 increasingly restricted with regard to synagogue attendance. In other words, the menstrual status of a woman, according to the texts, was not a private matter—even when the act of immersion gradually transitioned from an event in the great public installations to an event in the domestic sphere. The status of being ritually pure was thus both a public and a private affair, and one that, according to the written legacies we have at our disposal, was dominated and controlled by male authority. Despite the apparent centrality of women in the context of ritual immersion practices during the Middle Ages, there is no evidence that it had turned into an exclusively female domain. To the contrary, there exist texts that explicitly refer to the inclusion of both genders or even men exclusively. Among them, a text by Jacob Moellin, known as the Maharil (1360–1427), describes immersion in a miqveh on the eve of Yom Kippur, a practice frequently referenced and discussed in sources from the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries.117 In this text, he explains: “[It] is customary for men and women, youth and virgins who have reached bar and bat mitzvah [age] to immerse [on Yom Kippur eve].”118 Consulting the texts to illuminate questions regarding the gender of those who used these pools has obvious limitations. For as far as we know, the authors of the biblical, Talmudic, and rabbinic literature were mostly or exclusively male. The same can be said for the general readership of these texts. While only a minority of the Jewish population of Roman Palestine knew how to read, the assumption is that most male Jews in medieval Ashkenaz, unlike most Christians, were literate.119 Though it is difficult to prove beyond a doubt, Jewish women in both ancient and medieval societies are generally assumed not to have been literate.120 Otherwise, in addition to the general challenge of reconstructing which segments of society were able to read and write, it is difficult to assess what percentage of the population had indirect access to the content of these texts—even in just a condensed, simplified, visual, or oral version. Not to mention the androcentric nature of the written sources; that is, the fact that the texts were largely written by men for men. The exclusively male gaze on matters that are so closely tied to women’s bodies and sexuality is striking; it provides us with a particularly skewed image of social reality in all of its gender-sensitive complexity. The writings of Hasidei Ashkenaz on ritual immersion, both the ones that mention women explicitly, but also the ones that leave them out, cannot be considered a conclusive measure for assessing the gender distribution among those who performed this ritual for other reasons. For some the absence of clear references to women simply implies their lower status. Others speak of the straightforwardness of women’s roles and duties, which didn’t require elaboration and were mostly understood as implied in various general discussions related to purity concerns. In addition, the Hebrew plural masculine form traditionally implies the inclusion of women. Architecturally speaking, the transition of the ritual from a public to a private space may hold additional clues as a means to understand the role of gender in medieval Judaism. While the cessation of constructing large public miqva’ot is possibly linked to the decline of monumental Romanesque architecture, this change is no doubt related to the more general trend of what Jennifer Deane has termed “pious domesticities.” Documenting the centrality of home to the medieval imagination, specifically from a gendered perspective, she explores how “medieval people infused domestic spaces

126  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz with an array of spiritual meanings.” “Individual pieties,” she argues, consisted of bringing the “sacred into the household.”121 Without reinforcing the binary of private and public space in social practice and in architecture, especially salient around 1500, which equates the public domain as reserved for men and the private for women, the increased privacy of ritual immersion around 1300 may be the most tangible sign we have of Jewish women’s agency.122 While we don’t know who initiated either the structural change of miqva’ot or their location, women were clearly implicated. Women, after all, were most directly burdened by the obvious drawbacks of exposing their bodies and their functions to a communal gaze in a public space. In her study, “The Female Body and Religious Practice in the Later Middle Ages,” historian Caroline Bynum examines the newly emerging valorization of women’s bodies and the meanings with which they were charged, identifying what she refers to as “a turning point in the history of the body in the West.”123 The body, as “the carrier or the expression … of what we today call individuality,” though referring in her work to an exclusively Christian context, may be equally applicable to Jewish society. I would thus argue that Jewish women, by performing the act of ritual immersion prior to 1300 mostly in public spaces, and after that mostly in the private domain, participated, anticipated, and perhaps even inspired the more general shift toward female privacy and individuality. In the end, however, neither the texts nor the installations provide definitive answers with regard to who the users were, what the exact gender distribution may have been, and finally, what percentage of the population actually participated in this ritual. Repeated references to ritual pools in the texts and their presence within the architectural landscape—albeit presumably discrete in nature if not invisible above the surface—attest to their prominent role within Jewish medieval society in Ashkenaz. Male Coercion or Women’s Privilege? There seems to be no doubt about the centrality of the laws of niddah and the related practice of ritual immersion in miqva’ot when it comes to Jewish identity in medieval Ashkenaz. The relevance of this institution in regard to women specifically, and to gender roles, expectations, and regulations more generally, is thus of utmost importance. How to evaluate gender and power dynamics, however, and how to interpret the marked chronological changes over the time span considered, both in terms of the pools themselves, and with regard to the practice of immersion, is more complex. Stefanie Fuchs and Anette Weber have argued that immersion in miqva’ot provided specifically women—who were increasingly excluded from active participation in synagogue services—with an opportunity to participate in their society’s religious life through a ritual that fit well into their daily routines.124 This more bodily oriented aspect stood in contrast to a more cerebral form of practice, consisting of worship as well as Torah study and teaching, that was usually considered the fundamental pillar of Jewish culture. In some ways, it was in the synagogue where primarily men could carry out their religious duty through word and intellect, and it was within these pools that mostly women could perform their devout calling through a physical act. Following this sensible proposal, how then do we understand the emergence of monumental

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  127 miqva’ot in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and their subsequent disappearance? Were these underground architectural monuments truly understood as the religious architectural space of women as a counterpart to the religious architectural space of men, namely the synagogue? And if so, how do we understand the increasing presence of domestic miqva’ot in subsequent centuries, which seemingly coincided with the disappearance of the public miqva’ot? Since ritual immersion was considered a central element in women’s performance as pious members of medieval Jewish society, was this structural change indicative of their decreasing status? This would fit well with the general assumption among scholars that women were increasingly excluded from rituals and religious practice during the High Middle Ages.125 Or could the growing threat of pogroms and persecutions lead to the desire to adjust to Christian worship and ritual lifestyles—at least superficially, in these visible markers of religious identity? The synagogues found their match in the churches, whereas miqva’ot were something more exclusive to the Jewish urban landscape, probably understood as a Jewish identity marker par excellence. Since none of these matters are addressed in any of the surviving texts or documents, the question of this architectural shift, whether a result of the changing status of women, or in response to the political realities Jewish communities faced more broadly, or alternatively related to both, will have to remain unanswered. Yet, while it seems impossible to prove that the architectural change of miqva’ot in medieval Ashkenaz goes hand in hand with a change in the status of Jewish women, Elisheva Baumgarten has called attention to evolving gender dynamics for the period under scrutiny. Whereas during the High Middle Ages, some women chose to avoid going to the synagogue during their monthly cycle—because they understood that, as with the Temple, they were excluded from it during times of ritual impurity—as of the mid- to late-thirteenth century, staying away from the synagogue and other institutions and geographic centers of their community established itself as the norm.126 In the words of Baumgarten, “[W]hat began as a personal expression of piety became a justification for the marginalization of women in the synagogue.”127 Interestingly, rather than viewing this chronological change exclusively as a result of new halakhic directions initiated by male authorities, Baumgarten underlines women’s agency in modifying ritual behavior. How to interpret biblical and Talmudic concepts of ritual purity and impurity and translate them into medieval practices, according to this proposal, was thus not exclusively decided by the rabbis, but rather by women, who ultimately dictated the new legislation. Though no one has suggested questioning the overarching patriarchal structure of medieval Ashkenaz, this new view of agency invites us to reexamine the various layers of gender and power dynamics by recognizing the impact of women on male authorities. I would like to propose another or perhaps additional perspective on how women’s agency may have impacted the architectural shift from public to private miqva’ot. There are tangible signs in some of the literary evidence we have for women’s resistance to the rules of full-body immersion in miqva’ot. Evyatar Marienberg has examined the question of heating the water of these installations, which in the case of groundwater stays at the relatively stable temperature of approximately 10 degrees Celsius (50 degrees Fahrenheit) throughout the year.128 Whether adding hot water to the cold water in a miqveh is feasible from a halakhic point of view is a topic already discussed in the

128  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz Talmud. A text from the fourth century CE (Niddah 67b–68a) describes the tension between the head of Babylonia’s Jewish community and his wife as a result of her refusal to purify herself. Marienberg explores Tossafist writings on this question, both as it relates to the understanding of the Talmudic text and how it should be employed to reconstruct social realities in medieval Ashkenaz (B. Niddah 67b–68a). He specifically draws attention to a correspondence between two brothers, the rabbis Isaac ben Abraham (Rizba) and Samson, both important codifiers from the late twelfth/early thirteenth century. While the former argues in favor of warming the miqveh’s cold water, the latter reasons against it, relying, among others, on the authoritative view of Rabbeinu Tam (Jacob ben Meir, 1100–1171) on this subject. While Marienberg distinguishes between two types of women, the “courageous” ones who subjected themselves to bathing in cold water, and the “less courageous” ones, who simply avoided immersion, he does not consider the possibility that women found their own ways to perform their piety, rejecting the male dictates of ritual immersion, yet adhering to rules that were sensible in their eyes. In other words, Jewish women in medieval Ashkenaz, according to his view, may have struggled with the cold temperatures of the miqveh waters. They would not have dared, however, to challenge the religious precepts beyond avoiding immersion (while still observing the rules of niddah by avoiding intimacy and intercourse with their husbands). Women’s observance of ritual purity laws, he continues to argue, accounts for the low numbers of children per Jewish family in Germany and France during the Middle Ages, in particular in relation to Christian families.129 A more likely reading of both Talmudic and Tossafist writings, however, would be to understand precisely these incidents of female objection and disobedience—albeit mostly overruled by the male authors—as proof of women’s agency. Though it is difficult to evaluate how many Jewish medieval women protested or disobeyed the imposed laws of niddah and the required immersion in miqva’ot, the collected evidence from other historical and geographical contexts seems to suggest that women repeatedly questioned this practice. Avraham Grossman writes about Jewish women in Egypt, who in the late twelfth century refused to partake in the miqveh ritual. Following the custom of the Karaite women, rather than immersing themselves in the pools, they simply poured water over their bodies in their homes or in public bathhouses. According to Grossman, this “rebellion” was motivated by personal convenience and comfort, in which the hot water in the Muslim bathhouses and the religio-ideological influence of Karaitism are highlighted as factors.130 Women’s (resistance) agency can be demonstrated by the fact that Maimonides and other rabbinic leaders in Egypt had to take drastic measures to counter the apparent force and coherence that the Jewish women demonstrated. We know for example, that women were explicitly threatened that they would lose their right to ketubah money if they refused to obey the rules of full body immersion.131 Though Koren stresses the stricter customs of medieval Ashkenazim regarding the isolation of menstruants from the sancta as opposed to the Sephardi Jews, similar signs of women’s resistance against the regulations of full-body immersions are documented for Byzantium.132 Italian Talmudist Isaiah di Trani ben Mali (c. 1180–c. 1250) commented on the fact that most Jewish women were not keen to immerse in miqva’ot. His efforts to change this attitude were supposedly only marginally successful.133 Women’s defiance of this ritual, in the end, may have been more widespread than previously assumed.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  129 The recognition that immersion in these pools was not only a matter of courage and religious devotion but also one that impacted these women’s health, ultimately led to a reform of this institution in nineteenth-century Germany. Instigated by several written reports by physicians (including at least one who was Jewish), who called attention to both the cold temperatures and the lack of hygienic standards, regulations started to call for the heating of the bathing water and recommended regular replenishing of the miqveh with clean water.134 This then brought on the construction of numerous new miqva’ot (Figure 2.32) that responded to these new directives.135 Though these changes post-date my focus group by nearly 500 years, it is likely that the medieval pools’ conditions and thus the temperatures and quality of the water they contained were similar. Reports reflecting on the poor conditions of these later miqva’ot may reveal something about the experience of full-body immersion that is equally relevant to immersion in medieval pools. Among the numerous publications focusing on the problematic features of these old-fashioned miqva’ot is Jewish physician and obstetrician Moritz Mombert’s description from 1830: The spring baths are located in larger cities, usually within the basements of synagogues, in the smaller towns in private cellars. Some in large cities are rather fine, the great majority, however, are in terrible condition, specifically those in smaller cities, in villages, and in the very poor communities. Once you reach these mostly cold, moldy, deep basements, you continue to descend on initial stone steps, sometimes eight, or ten (once I even saw twenty-two), leading into the vaulted bath, before reaching the water level; here the naked woman has to descend. Once she reaches the bottom, she has to fully immerse including her head … The water in poor installations can generally not be heated, which causes illness, typical when taking a cold bath in a cold basement. In smaller towns, the water often remains the same for all bathers for years (I myself know of one—horribile dictu!—which had not been cleared from the horrific mud that accumulated over a period of 34 years), used at once by the most dirty commoner woman, as well as by one who loves cleanliness, who alone from disgust will get sick, if she considers that she is required to take a bath in a sewage, in which the dirt of an entire generation has accumulated.136 To return to our miqva’ot of medieval Ashkenaz, and the leading question on women’s agency in the context of a patriarchal society, we can say the following. These ritual pools, regardless of how sophisticated the workmanship, the architectural details, and financial investment in these structures—whether the great public miqva’ot or the more modest private ones—were dingy and the waters were no doubt cold if not freezing. Men may have used them, some even regularly. But it was the women who were obligated to do so by rabbinic precept. No matter how much they were rewarded—sexually, socially, spiritually—both the texts and the structures themselves suggest that immersion was no easy or pleasant task. And we can say for certain that at least some women in some places, individually or as groups, resisted and disobeyed this practice. Yet we can also assume that many if not most women regularly observed the rules of ritual purity, and perhaps a minority or even the majority may even have experienced feelings of gratitude and pleasure in doing so.

130  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz More generally we can say that Jewish women—specifically as the ritual transitioned from the prominently situated and public miqva’ot to the more intimate space of the private domestic realm—were central actors in the general medieval trend of increasingly emphasizing the importance of private space. By infusing the domestic space with piety, specifically through the individual performance of a ritual act, Jewish women not only claimed ownership of their bodies and sexualities but may have contributed to shaping an early expression of female privacy, formulated centuries later as concepts of individualism. Notes 1 See Otto Böcher, Die Alte Synagoge zu Worms, Der Wormsgau, Zeitschrift der Kulturinstitute der Stadt Worms und des Altertumsvereins Worms – Beiheft 18 (Worms: Verlag Stadtbibliothek Worms, 1960), 101–4. 2 Sharon Faye Koren, Forsaken. The Menstruant in Medieval Jewish Mysticism (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2011), 47. 3 Most Jews during the High Middle Ages lived within the same area of a town or city, which in only a few occasions was physically separated from those of their Christian neighbors. Occasionally, the separation was self-imposed and defined by the Jewish laws of eruv (symbolic boundaries that extend the private domain of Jewish households). For a detailed analysis on the boundaries of Jewish Quarters in medieval Ashkenaz, see Markus Wenninger, “Grenzen in der Stadt? Zu Lage und Abgrenzung mittelalterlicher deutscher Judenviertel,” Aschkenas – Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kultur der Juden 14 (2004), 9–29. On the eruv in Ashkenaz, see Micha Perry, “Imaginary Space Meets Actual Space in Thirteenth-Century Cologne: Eliezer Ben Joel and the Eruv,” Images 5, no. 1 (2011), 26–36. 4 Anne Szulmajster-Celnikier and Marie-Christine Bornes Varol, “Émergence et évolution parallèle de deux langues juives: Yidiche et judéo-éspagnol,” La linguistique 53, no. 2 (2017), 199–236. 5 For historical overviews, see Julien Bauer, Les Juifs Ashkénazes, Vol. 3623 of Que Sais-je? (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 20), 9–29; Jeffrey Woolf, The Fabric of Religious Life in Medieval Ashkenaz (1000–1300). Creating Sacred Communities. Études sur le judaïsme médiéval, Vol. 30 (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 1–4. 6 For a detailed account of Jews in medieval Germany and France, see Robert Chazan, The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom, 1000–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 7 On the meaning of the word miqveh in the biblical context, see Désirée Schostak, Zwischen Gesundheit und Gebot: Der Wandel der Mikwe im Zeitalter der Emanzipation ... Das Jüdische Rituelle Tauchbad (Mikwe) Zwischen Gesundheit und Religiösem Gebot. Unterrichtsmaterialien zur Jüdischen Emanzipation in Baden (Berlin: Hochschule für Jüdische Studien Heidelberg und Stiftung Verantwortung Zukunft, 2016), 6–8. 8 For a more detailed overview of how the term evolved in the Talmudic literature from the Roman through the Byzantine period, see Stuart Miller, At the Intersection of Texts and Material Finds: Stepped Pools, Stone Vessels, and Ritual Purity among the Jews of Roman Galilee. Journal of Ancient Judaism: Supplements, Vol. 16 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 32–44. For alternative views on how the meaning evolved from the Hellenistic period through late antiquity, see n. 28. 9 See Yonatan Adler, “Rabbinic Literary Evidence on the Mikveh in Medieval Germany” in Jewish Architecture – New Sources and Approaches, edited by Katrin Keßler and Alexander von Kienlin (Petersberg: Michael Imhof Verlag, 2015), 78. 10 Adler, “Rabbinic Literary Evidence on the Mikveh,” 79.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  131 11 The term “Frauenbad” (“women’s bath”) appears for instance in a document from Trier in 1359. See Annette Haller, “Die Mikwen der Gemeinde Trier. Neues Quellenmaterial aus dem 18. Jahrhundert,” Menora 4 (1993), 203–11. It was then increasingly used in the seventeenth century. See Franz Hundsnurscher and Gerhard Taddey, Die Jüdischen Gemeinden in Baden: Denkmale, Geschichte, Schicksale (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer Verlag, 1968), 208. 12 On the different terms, see Katrin Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland – Typologie und Entwicklungsgeschichte,” INSITU. Zeitschrift für Architekturgeshichte 7 (2015), 198. 13 Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 202. 14 On the specific sources and their implications for gender, see Nicole Ruane, “Bathing, Status and Gender in Priestly Ritual,” in A Question of Sex: Gender and Difference in the Hebrew Bible and Beyond, edited by Deborah Rooke (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007), 66–81. 15 For a detailed analysis of groundwater fed miqva’ot, specifically in the context of medieval ritual pools in Ashkenaz, see Meir Posen, “Die Mikwe als Grundlage jüdischen Lebens,” in Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland. Eine Ausstellung des Jüdischen Museums der Stadt Frankfurt am Main 10. September–15. November 1992, edited by Georg Heuberger (Frankfurt am Main: Jüdisches Museum Frankfurt am Main, 1992), 1–8; Thea Altaras, Das jüdische rituelle Tauchbad und Synagogen in Hessen. Was geschah seit 1945? Vol. 2 (Königstein: Langeswische, 1994), 4. Otto Böcher suggested that the miqveh at Worms was also supplied by rainwater. See Otto Böcher, “Die Alte Synagoge zu Worms,” in Festschrift zur Wiedereinweihung der Alten Synagoge zu Worms, edited by Ernst Roth (Frankfurt am Main: Ner Tamid Verlag, 1961), 57. Stefanie Fuchs is arguing against this interpretation. See Stefanie Fuchs, “Die Mikwen von Speyer und Worms: Aktueller Forschungsstand,” in Die jüdische Gemeinde von Erfurt und die SchUM-Gemeinden: kulturelles Erbe und Vernetzung, edited by Frank Bussert (Erfurt: Bussert & Stadeler 1, 2012), 64. 16 Posen, “Die Mikwe als Grundlage Jüdischen Lebens,” 3, n. 7; Eliav Mordechai, Jüdische Erziehung in Deutschland im Zeitalter der Aufklärung und der Emanzipation. Jüdische Bildungsgeschichte in Deutschland, Vol. 2 (Münster: Waxmann Verlag, 2000). 17 On how this discovery has defined the approach to studying the archaeological remains of stepped and plastered pools, see Miller, Intersection of Texts and Material Finds, 17–18. See also Yonatan Adler, “Religion, Judaism, Purity in the Roman Period,” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Bible and Archaeology, Vol. 2, edited by Daniel Master et al. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 240–1. 18 Louis-Hughes Vincent and Marie-Joseph Steve described them as cisterns. See LouisHugues Vincent and Marie-Joseph Steve, Jérusalem de l’ancien testament: recherches d’archéologie et d’histoire, Vol. 1 (Paris: J. Gabalda, 1954), 351. Ronny Reich was the first to identify them as miqva’ot. See Ronny Reich, “Mishnah, Sheqalim 8:2 and the Archaeological Evidence,” in Perakim be-Toldot Yerushalayim Bbi-Yeme Bayit Sheni: Sefer Zikaron le-Avraham Shalit, edited by Aharon Oppenheimer et al. (Jerusalem: Sifriyah le-Toldot ha-Yishuv ha-Yehudi be-Erets Yisrael, 1980), 225–56 [Hebrew]. 19 On the discovery, see Yigael Yadin, Masada: Herod’s Fortress and the Zealot’s Last Stand (New York: Random House, 1966), 164–7. 20 His doctoral dissertation completed in 1990 was published in 2013. See Ronny Reich, Miqwa’ot (Jewish Ritual Baths) in the Second Temple, Mishnaic, and Talmudic Periods (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi and Israel Exploration Society, 2013) [Hebrew]. Significant contributions on ancient miqva’ot were made by David Amit and Yonatan Adler. See among numerous other contributions, David Amit and Yonatan Adler, “The

132  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz

21

22

23

24 25

26 27

28

29

Observance of Ritual Purity after 70 CE. A Reevaluation of the Evidence in Light of Recent Archaeological Discoveries,” in “Follow the Wise”: Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine, edited by Zeev Weiss et al. (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 126–39. Amongst the most important discoveries concerning late Roman period miqva’ot, see Katharina Galor and Eric Meyers, “The Stepped Water Installations of the Western Summit,” in The Architecture, Stratigraphy, and Artifacts of the Western Summit of Sepphoris, Vol. 1, edited by Eric M. Meyers, Carol L. Meyers, and Benjamin D. Gordon (Pennsylvania: Eisenbrauns, 2018), 419–44. For a brief summary on miqva’ot see Adler, “Religion, Judaism, Purity,” 240–9. On the transition from concepts of priestly to non-priestly purity, see Eyal Regev, “Pure Individualism: The Idea of Non-Priestly Purity in Ancient Judaism,” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period 31, no. 2 (2000), 176–202. On the decrease of miqva’ot near synagogues after 70 CE, see Reich, Miqwa’ot, 142– 4; and Ronny Reich, “The Synagogue and the Miqweh in Eretz-Israel in the Second Temple, Mishnaic, and Talmudic Periods,” in Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological Data, Vol. 1, edited by Dan Urman and Paul V. M. Flesher (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 289–97. On the presence of miqva’ot near Samaritan synagogues, see Gary N. Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans. The Origins and History of Their Early Relations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 236–7. My own translation. See Monica Kingreen, Das Judenbad und die Judengasse in Friedberg. Wetterauer Geschichtsblätter. Beiträge zur Geschichte und Landeskunde, Vol. 56 (Friedberg: Verlag der Buchhandlung Bindernagel, 2008), 23. See also Leopold Löwenstein, Zur Geschichte der Juden in Friedberg. Blätter für Jüdische Literatur und Geschichte 4, no. 2 (Berlin: Verband der Vereine für Jüdische Geschichte und Literatur in Deutschland, 1903), 18. Sylvia Seifert, “Einblicke in das Leben Jüdischer Frauen in Regensburg,” in Regensburger Frauenspuren. Eine Historische Entdeckungsreise, edited by Ute Kätzel and Karin Schrott (Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1995), 97. Georg Heuberger ed., Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland. Eine Ausstellung des Jüdischen Museums der Stadt Frankfurt am Main 10. September–15. November 1992 (Frankfurt am Main: Jüdisches Museum Frankfurt am Main, 1992). On the recognition by UNESCO in July 2021, see Sharon Wrobel, “In First, UNESCO Grants World Heritage Status to ‘Jerusalem on the Rhine,’ Jewish Cultural Sites in Germany,” The Algemeiner, July 28, 2021. See Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 200; and Katrin Keßler, “The Jewish Ritual Bath in Germany: Evolution and Statistics,” in Jewish Architecture – New Sources and Approaches, edited by Katrin Keßler and Alexander von Kienlin (Petersberg: Michael Imhof Verlag, 2015), 55. Most of these statistics are based on Ole Harck’s previously published work. See Ole Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum in der Europäischen Antike und dem Zentraleuropäischen Mittelalter (Petersberg: Michael Imhof Verlag, 2014), 311–42. Stefanie Fuchs is currently working on her PhD dissertation on miqva’ot in Germany. Her comprehensive survey will certainly alter the statistics and our knowledge regarding these installations. On the distinction between cellar and monumental miqva’ot, see Hannelore Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” in Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland, 25–43; Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 56. On kelim miqva’ot, see Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 336–42. On additional types of miqva’ot beyond our chronological framework, see Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 202–12.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  133 30 The parallel development of the monumental and the cellar miqveh has been suggested by Hannelore Künzl. See, Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 26. 31 See Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 26. On the monumental miqveh category, see also Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 313–24; and Anette Weber, “Neue Argumente für das mittelalterliche Aschkenas? Zur Sakraltypologie der Ritualbauten in den SchUM-Gemeinden,” in Die SchUM-Gemeinden Speyer-WormsMainz: auf dem Weg zum Welterbe. Beitrage der Internationalen Tagung “Die SchUMGemeinden Speyer–Worms–Mainz. Auf dem Weg zum Welterbe” vom 22.–24. November 2011 im Landesmuseum Mainz, edited by Pia Heberer (Regensburg: Schneel & Steiner, 2013), 37–62. 32 On cellar miqva’ot, see Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 324–8. 33 Ole Harck has discerned this category and described the structural features of kelim miqva’ot. See Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 336–42. Anette Weber elaborates on this aspect of ritual purity specifically for Ashkenaz. See Weber, “Neue Argumente für das mittelalterliche Aschkenas?” 37–62. 34 See Günter Stein, Judenhof und Judenbad in Speyer am Rhein (Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1978), 15; and Christian Kayser, “‘Einen Brunnen Grub er, Führte auf das Gewölbe …’ Bauforschung an der Mikwe von Worms,” in Der Wormsgau. Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Stadt Worms und des Altertumsvereins Worms E. V. 33, edited by Gerold Bönnen and Irene Spille (Worms: Stadtarchiv Worms der Werner‘sche Verlagsgeschellschaft, 2018), 12. 35 Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 28. 36 This was convincingly argued by Neta Bodner and Ariella Lehmann. See Neta Bodner and Ariella Lehmann, “‘Let Man See for Himself and Feel Like Newborn after Immersion’: On the Immersion of Men, Vessels, and Public Principles in the Medieval Miqva’ot of Germany,” Innovations-Studies in the History of German and Central European Jewry 21 (Jerusalem: Leo Baeck Institute, 2019), 47–59 [Hebrew]. 37 Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 318. 38 On the installation, see Günter Stein, “Der mittelalterliche Judenhof und seine Bauten,” in Geschichte der Juden in Speyer. Beitrage zur Speyerer Stadtgeschichte 6, edited by Historischer Verein der Pfalz. Bezirksgruppe Speyer (Speyer: Die Bezirksgruppe, 1981), 49. On alternative interpretations see also Günther Stein and Heinz-Josef Engels, “Die Grabung im Speyerer Judenhof 1965–1968,” Pfälzer Heimat 22 (1971), 107; Stein, “Der mittelalterliche Judenhof,” 61. 39 Sven Schütte tried to argue that the Jewish Quarter in Cologne was established as early as the first century CE. See, Sven Schütte, “Die Juden in Köln von der Antike bis zum Hochmittelalter. Beiträge zur Diskussion zum frühen Judentum nördlich der Alpen,” in Synagogen, Mikwen, Siedlungen. Jüdisches Alltagsleben im Lichte neuer archäologischer Funde. Schriften des Archäologischen Museums Frankfurt 19, edited by Egon Warners and Fritz Backhaus (Frankfurt am Main: Stadt Frankfurt Dezernat Kultur und Wissenschaft, 2004), 73–116. On this controversy and how this theory has been debunked, see Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 314–6. 40 The excavations are conducted in coordination with the archaeological zone of the Römisch-Germanisches-Museum der Stadt Köln and in preparation of the construction of the new MiQua. LVR-Jewish Museum in the Archaeological Quarter Cologne to open its doors to the public in 2021. For the most recent evaluations of the Cologne Jewish Quarter, see Katja Kliemann and Sebastian Ristow, “Köln und das frühe Judentum nördlich der Alpen–Kontinuität, Umbruch oder Neubeginn?” Mitteilungen der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Archäologie des Mittelalters und der Neuzeit 31 (2018), 9–20. 41 See Kliemann and Ristow, “Köln und das Frühe Judentum ,” 13. Katrin Keßler dates the miqveh to c. 1000. See, Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 200.

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42 43

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58 59 60

61 62

Hannelore Künzl dates the miqveh to ca. 1170. See Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 31. See Bodner and Lehmann, “Let Man See for Himself.” Another miqveh located in Kaiserslautern, in Rhineland Palatinate, similar in style to the miqva’ot at Worms and Speyer has been excavated in 1995–1996. To the present, only a preliminary report has been published. See D. Burghaus and J. Bernhard, “Kaiserslautern-Altenhof, Jüdische Mikwe,” in Archäologie in der Pfalz. Jahresbericht 2000, edited by Helmut Bernhard (Rahden: Verlag Marie Leidorf, 2001), 214–42. On the inscription, see Böcher, “Die Alte Synagoge zu Worms,” 46; and Fuchs, “Die Mikwen von Speyer und Worms,” 64–6. Otto Böcher’s suggested that the groundwater would not have been sufficient to allow the pool to fill up and that it was supplemented by rainwater reaching the pool through an opening in the top of the shaft. See Böcher, “Die Alte Synagoge zu Worms,” 47–9. For comparisons of the architectural details, see Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 29; Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 201; Fuchs, “Die Mikwen von Speyer und Worms,” 62–3. Kingreen, Das Judenbad, 10. On the origin of the miqveh, see Stefanie Fuchs, “Die Friedberger Mikwe im Kunsthistorischen Vergleich,” Zeitschrift für Architekturgeschichte 7 (2017), 14. Kingreen, Das Judenbad, 10. Kingreen, Das Judenbad, 14–15. On this, see Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 32–3; Fuchs, “Die Friedberger Mikwe,” 14. Kingreen, Das Judenbad, 15–6. In opposition to other scholars, Katrin Keßler has argued that the miqveh at Andernach dates to the fourteenth century. See Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 201. For a more detailed description, see Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 32–4. For a comparison with the miqveh at Friedberg, see Fuchs, “Die Friedberger Mikwe,” 9–14. Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 33–4. See, for instance, Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 322–4. For a preliminary report on the excavations, see Karin Sczech, “Bericht zur Stadtarchäologie im Jahr 2008,” Mitteilungen des Vereins für die Geschichte und Altertumskunde von Erfurt 79, no. 17 (2009), 134–6; Karin Sczech, “Bericht zur Stadtarchäologie im Jahr 2010 und 2011,” Mitteilungen des Vereins für die Geschichte und Altertumskunde von Erfurt 79, no. 17 (2009), 267, 291–4. See Sczech,“Bericht zur Stadtarchäologie im Jahr 2010 und 2011,” 291–2. Traces of fire led the excavator to suggest that it was heated. See Sczech, “Bericht zur Stadtarchäologie im Jahr 2010 und 2011,” 284, 292. Karin Sczech suggests that in the Middle Ages, high tides rather than low tides may have caused problems to optimal water levels in the miqveh. See Sczech, “Bericht zur Stadtarchäologie im Jahr 2008,” 135–6; and Karin Sczech, “Die Erfurter Mikwe,” in Erfurter Schriften zur Jüdischen Geschichte 1, Die Jüdische Gemeinde von Erfurt und die SchUM-Gemeinden. Kulturelles Erbe und Vernetzung, edited by Landeshauptstadt Erfurt Stadtverwaltung (Jena and Quedlinburg: Verlag Bussert & Stadeler, 2012), 70–7. See description on the city’s official website: https://juedisches​-leben​.erfurt​.de​/jl​/de​/ mittelalter​/mikwe​/geschichte​/index​.htm. The one located on 19 rue des Juifs was destroyed in 1986. It was still referred to as Zum Judenbad until 1587. See Marie Dominique Waton, “Des bains juifs à Strasbourg,” Cahiers alsaciens d’archéologie, d’art et d’histoire 29 (1986), 53; Robert Weyl and

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63

64 65

66

67 68 69

70

71

72 73 74

Martine Weyl, “La fresque de la cour du bain des juifs,” Revue des études juives 157 (1998), 375. Stefanie Fuchs suggests that the installation was built around 1240/50. See Fuchs, “Die Friedberger Mikwe im Kunsthistorischen Vergleich,” 7. Marie Dominique Waton notes the structural similarity with the Friedberg miqveh and proposes that it was built in 1260. See Waton, “Des bains juifs à Strasbourg,” 55. Hannelore Künzl suggests to compare the Strasbourg miqveh to the miqva’ot at these three locations. See Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 39–40. For the dating of Bamberg installation, see Claus Vetterling, “‘… in der Kesslergass auf der Judenschul Genannt’ – Eine Mikwe in der Bamberger Inselstadt,” in Das archäologische Jahr in Bayern 2003 (Stuttgart: Konrad Theiss, 2004), 137–8. For the Sondershausen pool, see Falk Nicol and Diethard Walter, “Ausgrabung und Präsentation eines mittelalterlichen Ritualbades in Sondershausen,” in Synagogen, Mikwen, Siedlungen: Jüdisches Alltagsleben im Lichte neuer archäologischer Funde. Schriften des Archäologischen Museums Frankfurt 19 (Regensburg: Verlag Schnell & Steiner, 2004), 198–9. For a brief summary, see Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 328. For a more detailed description, see Falk Nicol, “Die mittelalterliche Mikwe von Sondershausen,” in Juden in Schwarzburg. Festschrift zu Ehren Prof. Philipp Heidenheims (1814–1906), Rabbiner in Sondershausen Anlässlich Seines 100. Todestages. Herausgegeben vom Schlossmuseum Sondershausen. Vol. 1. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Juden Schwarzburgs (Dresden: Sandstein, 2006), 87–92; Nicol and Walter, “Ausgrabung und Präsentation eines mittelalterlichen Ritualbades in Sondershausen,” 193–202. See Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 326; and Hans-Peter Süss, “Jüdische Archäologie  im Nördlichen Bayern. Franken und Oberfranken,” in Arbeiten zur Archäologie Süddeutschlands 25 (Büchenbach: Faustus, 2010), 104–6. Arnd Müller, Geschichte der Juden in Nürnberg 1146–1945 (Nürnberg: Selbstverlag Der Stadtbibliothek, 1968), 21. On this installation, see Claudia Frieser and Birgit Friedel, “… Di Juden hi Waren Gesessen zu Mittelst auf dem Platz … Die ersten Nürnberger Juden und ihre Siedlung bis 1296,” in Nürnberg – Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte: … Nicht Eine Einzige Stadt, Sonder Eine Ganze Welt…, edited by Birgit Friedel and Claudia Frieser (Buchenbach: Faustus, 1999), 65; Ole Harck, “Eine mittelalterliche Mikwe in Görlitz?” Görlitzer Magazin 19 (2006), 73; Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 338–9. The interpretation as a kelim miqveh was suggested by Hans-Günther Griep. See, Hans-Günther Griep, “‘Judenbäder’? Ausgrabungen und Bodenfund im Stadtgebiet Goslar,” Harz-Zeitschrift 35 (1983), 20–4. Ole Harck includes it in his survey of kelim miqva’ot, but seems hesitant about this interpretation. See Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 339–40. Several scholars have brought this miniature illumination into dialogue with the archaeological finds. See for instance Therese Metzger and Mendel Metzger, Jüdisches Leben im Mittelalter nach Illuminierten Hebräischen Handschriften vom 13. bis 16. Jahrhundert (Würzburg: Edition Popp, 1983), Fig. 111; Harck, Archäologische Studien zum Judentum, 241; and Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 19. Künzl states that alongside the monumental miqva’ot, cellar miqva’ot existed as early as the twelfth century. See Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 26. I am grateful to Neta Bodner, who has brought my attention to this. Stuart Miller suggests that ritual purity practices may have been vibrant, both in antiquity and the Middle Ages, but potentially “at odds with halakhah.” See Miller, Intersection of Texts and Material Finds, 28.

136  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz 75 This multifunctionality has been first proposed by the author. See among others, Katharina Galor, “Qumran’s Plastered Pools: A New Perspective,” in Science and Archaeology at Khirbet Qumran and ‘Ain Feshkkha, edited by Jean-Baptiste Humbert and Jan Gunneweg,” 169–98 (Fribourg: Presses Universitaires de Fribourg, 2003). This reading of the texts in relation to the stepped pools at Sepphoris has been adopted by Stuart Miller. See Miller, Intersection of Texts and Material Finds, 51. 76 For the miqveh in Rouen, see Bernhard Blumenkranz, “Ensemble synagogal à Rouen: 1096–116,” Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et BellesLettres (1976), 663–5, 684–6; for the miqva’ot in London and Bristol, see Ian Blair et al., “The Discovery of Two Medieval mikva’ot in London and a Reinterpretation of the Bristol ‘Mikveh,’” Jewish Historical Studies 37 (2001), 15–40. 77 See José Maria Millás Vallicrosa, “Descubrimento de una miqwah en la población de Besalú,” Sefarad 25 (1967), 67–9. 78 See Carol Iancu, Les Juifs à Montpellier et dans le Languedoc. Du Moyen Âge à nos Jours (Montpellier: Université Paul Valéry, Centre de recherches et d’études juives et hébraïques, 1988), 73–92; Chantal Delomier, “Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux (Drôme). Ilot Juiverie,” Archéologie médiévale 45 (2015), 191. 79 Künzl, “Mittelalterliche Mikwen außerhalb Deutschlands,” 17–21. 80 Künzl, “Mittelalterliche Mikwen außerhalb Deutschlands,” 17–21. 81 Dieter Krienke, “Weisenau–Synagoge und Mikwen. “Wiederentdeckung” und Rettung der Weisenauer Synagoge,” in Die Mainzer Synagogen. Sonderheft der Mainzer Geschichtsblätter, edited by Hedwig Brüchert (Mainz: Verein für Sozialgeschichte, 2008), 132–6. 82 My own translation. See Kingreen, Das Judenbad, 51. 83 Künzl assumes the monumental miqva’ot were marked by some architectural superstructure visible above the ground. See Künzl, “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter,” 34. 84 On how piety became part of the domestic sphere and especially on how it impacted gender norms, see Jennifer Deane, “Pious Domesticities,” in The Oxford Handbook of Women and Gender in Medieval Europe, edited by Judith Bennett and Ruth Mazo Karras (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 262. On the body as a symbol of both individual and collective identity during the Middle Ages, see Jill Ross and Suzanne Conklin Akbari eds., The Ends of the Body: Identity and Community in Medieval Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013). 85 For the exact wording of the piyyut, an analysis of the Midrashic and medieval versions, see Sarit Shalev-Eyni, “Purity and Impurity in the Naked Woman Bathing in Jewish and Christian Art,” in Between Judaism and Christianity. Art Historical Essays in Honor of Ellisheva (Elisabeth) Revel-Neher, edited by Katrin Kogmann-Appel and Mati Meyer (Boston: Brill, 2008), 193–4. 86 On the Hamburg Miscellany, see Sarit Shalev-Eyni, “The Bared Breast in Medieval Ashkenazi Illumination: Cultural Connotations in a Heterogeneous Society,” Different Visions 5 (2014), 11; and Shalev-Eyni, “Purity and Impurity in the Naked Woman Bathing in Jewish and Christian Art,” 192; Elliott Horowitz, “Between Cleanliness and Godliness: Aspects of Jewish Bathing in Medieval and Early Modern Times,” in Tov Elem: Memory, Community and Gender in Medieval and Early Modern Jewish Societies—Essays in honor of Robert Bonfil, edited by Elisheva Baumgarten et al. (Jerusalem: Bialik, 2011), 38; Bezalel Narkiss, Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts (Jerusalem: Encylopaedia Judaica and New York: Macmillan, 1969), 118–9, Pl. 39. 87 Aryeh Kaplan, Waters of Eden: The Mystery of the Mikveh (New York: Orthodox Union, 1982), 16. 88 Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, The Savage in Judaism (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1990), 177–94. 89 Daniel Boyarin, Carnal Israel. Reading Sex in Talmudic Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 50.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  137 90 For their contributions on this subject, see Rachel Wasserfall ed., Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 1999), 21–142. 91 See Leslie Cook, “Body Language: Women’s Rituals of Purification in the Bible and Mishnah,” in Women and Water, 41–59; Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, “Yalta’s Ruse. Resistance against Rabbinic Menstrual Authority in Talmudic Literature,” in Women and Water, 60–81. 92 Shaye Cohen, “Purity, Piety, and Polemic, Medieval Rabbinic Denunciations of ‘Incorrect’ Purification Practice,” in Women and Water, 96–8. 93 Koren, Forsaken, 7–27, 101–21. 94 Ruane, “Bathing, Status and Gender in Priestly Ritual,” 66–81. 95 Ruane, “Bathing, Status and Gender in Priestly Ritual,” 74. 96 Scholars who for instance argue that menstruants, parturients, and women with irregular flows of blood were required to bathe at the end of their impurity include Deborah Ellens, “Leviticus 15: Contrasting Conceptual Associations regarding Women,” in Reading the Hebrew Bible for a New Millennium: Form, Concept and Theological Perspective, Vol. 2: Exegetical and Theological Studies, edited by Wonil Kim et al. (Studies in Antiquity and Christianity; Harrison: Trinity Press International, 2000), 141; Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16 (AB, 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991); David Wright, The Disposal of Impurity: Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamia Literature (SBLDS, 101; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987). 97 On her inferior status, in particular as it relates to ritual purity concerns, see among others Shaye Cohen, “Menstruants and the Sacred in Judaism and Christianity,” in Women’s History and Ancient History, edited by Sarah Pomeroy (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991), 273–99; Tirzah Meacham, “An Abbreviated History of the Development of the Jewish Menstrual Laws,” in Women and Water, 23–9; Judith Romney Wegner, “‘Coming before the Lord’: The Exclusion of Women from the Public Domain of the Israelite Priestly Cult,” in The Book of Leviticus, edited by Rolf Rendtorff and Robert Kugler (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 81–91. 98 Tal Ilan, “Since When Do Women Go to Miqveh? Archaeological and Rabbinic Evidence,” in The Archaeology and Material Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, Institute of Jewish Studies, Studies in Judaica, edited by Markham Geller (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 83–96. 99 In Contra Apionem, Josephus mentions the injunction to sexual partners to immerse after intercourse. According to Tal Ilan, this statement must be seen as a paraphrase of Leviticus 15:18, and not as a reflection of a known reality. Among the Dead Sea Scrolls, explicit references to women appear in 4Q272 and in 4Q274. See Ilan, “Since When Do Women Go to Miqveh?” 88. 100 On this, see specifically Mishnah Eduyot 5:4 and Sifra Zavim Pereq 92. This difference is discussed in more length by Vered Noam. Vered Noam, “Beit Shammai and the Sectarian Halakha,” Jewish Studies: Journal of the World Union of Jewish Studies 41 (2005), 45–67. 101 Tal Ilan stresses that there is no text from the Second Temple period that unequivocally requires a menstruant to immerse in order to become pure. In contrast, by the time of the Tannaim, this practice has established itself as the norm. See Ilan, “Since When Do Women Go to Miqveh?” 89. 102 Tractate Miqva’ot contains the largest number of references to a full-body immersion in the entire Mishnah. Tal Ilan has examined the gradually decreasing trend of male versus female nouns and argues convincingly how this can be understood as a change with regard to gender norms within the institution of ritual purity. See Ilan, “Since When Do Women Go to Miqveh?” 93. 103 Ilan, “Since When Do Women Go to Miqveh?” 95.

138  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz 104 Elisheva Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety in Medieval Ashkenaz: Men, Women, and Everyday Religious Observance (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014). 105 Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety, 5. 106 Koren, Forsaken, 43–60. 107 See Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 198. As already mentioned, the term “Frauenbad” appears as early as in documents from the fourteenth century. See Haller, “Die Mikwen der Gemeinde Trier” and then increasingly in the seventeenth century. See Hundsnurscher and Taddey, Die Jüdischen Gemeinden in Baden. 108 For a critical historical evaluation of Hasidei Ashkenaz, see Ivan Marcus, Piety and Society: The Jewish Pietists of Medieval Germany (Leiden: Brill, 1981). 109 Among them are Shaye Cohen, Alexandra Cuffel, Judith Baskin, and Faye Koren. See Shaye Cohen, “Purity and Piety: The Separation of Menstruants from the Sancta,” in Daughters of the King. Women and the Synagogue, edited by Susan Grossman and Rivka Haut (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1992), 103–15; Cohen, “Purity, Piety, and Polemic,” 82–100; Alexandra Cuffel, “From Practice to Polemic: Shared Saints and Festivals as ‘Women’s Religion’ in the Medieval Mediterranean,” Bulletin of School of Oriental and African Studies 68 (2005), 401–19; Judith Baskin, “From Separation to Displacement: The Problem of Women in Sefer Hasidim,” Association for Jewish Studies Review 19 (1994), 1–18; Judith Baskin, “Jewish Women in the Middle Ages,” in Jewish Women in Historical Perspective, edited by Judith Baskin (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1998), 101–27; Judith Baskin, “Women and Ritual Immersion in Medieval Ashkenaz: The Sexual Politics of Piety,” in Judaism in Practice: From the Middle Ages through the Early Modern Period, edited by Lawrence Fine (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 131–42; Koren, Forsaken. 110 See Eleazar of Worms, who in Sefer Rokeah, introduced the section of niddah with the following benediction: “Blessed are you, God of Israel, from this world to the next world, who has sanctified us with his commandments, separating us from impurity and cautioning us to beware of menstruants and (their) discharge.” Eleazar ben Judah, Sefer Rokeah HaGadol, edited by S. Weingeld (Jerusalem, 1960), #317. Translation from Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety, 43. 111 Koren, Forsaken, 1–2. 112 Isaac ben Joseph of Corbeil, Piskey Rabenu R”I MeCorbeil, edited by Hayim Sha’anan (Beni Brak: Sha’anan Familyu, 1988), #65. A similar situation was described by Eleazar of Worms in Sefer Rokeah, #317. See also Koren, Forsaken, 47. 113 SHB, #506; also, Koren, Forsaken, 48. 114 Isaac Cahana, R. Meir ben Baruch (Maharam) of Rothenburg: Responsa, Rulings, and Customs, Vol. 2 (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1990), 240 and 242 [Hebrew]; Cohen, “Purity, Piety, Polemic,” 95–6; Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety, 46. 115 Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety, 27. 116 Cohen, “Purity, Piety, Polemic,” 85. 117 See Bodner and Lehmann, “Let Man See for Himself,” 47–83. 118 Jacob Moelin and Zalman of St. Goar, Sefer Maharil: Minhagim, edited by Shlomo J. Spitzer (Jerusalem: Mif’al Torat Hakhme Ashkenaz: Mekhon Yerushalayim, 1989), #162 [Hebrew]. Tzidikiyah ben Abraham also implied that women immersed: Sefer Shibbolei haLeket, #283; Bodner and Lehmann, “Let Man See for Himself,” 36. 119 Alan Millard suggested that it was common among Jews in ancient Palestine to know how to read. See Alan Millard, “The Practice of Writing in Ancient Israel,” The Biblical Archaeologist 35, no. 4 (1972), 98–111. This theory has been largely debunked by Catherine Hezser’s authoritative study on this issue. She suggests that at least 90% of the Jewish population of Roman Palestine hardly knew how to write their own name.

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  139

120 121 122

123

124

125

126 127 128

See Catherine Hazser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine. Text and Studies in Ancient Judaism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 2–6. See Judith Baskin, “Some Parallels in the Education of Medieval Jewish and Christian Women,” Jewish History 5, no. 1 (1991), 41–52. With regard to literacy among Jews in medieval Europe, see Ivan Marcus, Rituals of Childhood. Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1996), 139, n.1; Ivan Marcus, “Honey Cakes and Torah: A Jewish Boy Learns His Letters,” in Judaism in Practice: From the Middle Ages Through the Early Modern Period. Princeton Readings in Religions, edited by Lawrence Fine (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), 118. More generally on the low literacy in medieval Europe, see Franz Bäuml, “Varieties and Consequences of Medieval Literacy and Illiteracy,” Speculum 55, no. 2 (1980), 237. In fact, most people in medieval Europe between the fourth and the fifteenth centuries CE were illiterate. See Franz Bäuml, “Medieval Literacy and Illiteracy,”, 237. On the concept of “individual pieties,” see Deane, “Pious Domesticities,” 266–70. On the emergence of this binary around 1500, see Sarah Rees Jones, “Public and Private Space and Gender in Medieval Europe,” in The Oxford Handbook of Women and Gender in Medieval Europe, 248. On the need to resist the equation of public space gendered as male space and private space gendered as female, see Thomas Kuehn and Anne Jacobson Schutte, “Introduction,” in Time, Space, and Women’s Lives in Early Modern Europe, edited by Anne Jacobson Schutte et al. (Kirksville: Truman State University Press, 2001), XV. On how various signifying functions are embedded in the actual bodies of spiritually powerful women, see Caroline Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (New York: Zone Books, 2012), 182. More generally on the body in the Middle Ages, ranging from the personal, private space of the individual to the public, shared space of the community, see Suzanne Conklin Akbari and Jill Ross, “Introduction. Limits and Teleology: The Many Ends of the Body,” in The Ends of the Body: Identity and Community in Medieval Culture, edited by Suzanne Conklin Akbari and Jill Ross (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013), 3–21. Stefanie Fuchs and Anette Weber, “Dort im Geklüft ein Bad, Zierlich in Säulen Umreiht,” in Ganz Rein! Jüdische Ritualbäder. Eine Ausstellung der Jüdischen Museen Franken, Frankfurt am Main, Hohenems und Wien (Wolkersdorf: Holzhausen Druck, 2010), 32. On this discussion, see Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 23–30; Theodore Evergates ed., Aristocratic Women in Medieval France (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), 1–6; Dyan Elliott, Proving Woman: Female Spirituality and Inquisitional Culture in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004); Martha Howell, Women, Production, and Patriarchy in Late Medieval Cities (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986). More specifically with regard to Jewish society, see Avraham Grossman, Pious and Rebellious. Jewish Women in Medieval Europe. Tauber Institute for the Study of European Jewry HBI Series on Jewish Women (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2004), 273–82; Elisheva Baumgarten, Mothers and Children: Jewish Family Life in Medieval Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 195–288; Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety, 15. While Rashi and his students reference the practice of menstruants avoiding the synagogue as a laudable custom, Eleazar turns it into a law. On this, see Koren, Foresaken, 54; Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety, 21, 27, 28. Baumgarten, Mothers Practicing Piety, 48. Fuchs and Weber, “Dort im Geklüft ein Bad,” 27.

140  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz 129 Evyatar Marienberg, “Le bain des Mélunaises: Les juifs médiévaux et l’eau froide des bains rituels,” Médiévales 43 (2002), 99–100. 130 Grossman, Pious and Rebellious, 109. 131 On this, see Eve Krakowski, “Maimonides’ Menstrual Reform in Egypt,” Jewish Quarterly Review 110, no. 2 (2020), 249–50, 265, 283; Cohen, “Purity, Piety, and Polemic,” 91–2. 132 Koren, Forsaken, 47–9. 133 Koren, Forsaken, 110. 134 In 1825, Peter Joseph Schneider, a physician published a report on the health hazards of the Kellerquellenbäder (cellar source baths) in one of the leading medical journals, based on his personal observations. As early as 1822, an official regulation for the Grand Duchy of Baden, demanded that both the ritual pools as well as the surrounding installations be heated. Schostak, Zwischen Gesundheit und Gebot, 3–4. 135 Keßler, “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland,” 204–210; Schostak, Zwischen Gesundheit und Gebot, 3–4. 136 My own translation. For the original version, see Schostak, Zwischen Gesundheit und Gebot, 3.

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Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  141 Blumenkranz, Bernhard. “Ensemble synagogal à Rouen: 1096–1116.” Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres (1976): 663–687. Böcher, Otto. “Die Alte Synagoge zu Worms.” In Festschrift zur Wiedereinweihung der Alten Synagoge zu Worms, edited by Ernst Roth, 11–154. Frankfurt am Main: Ner Tamid Verlag, 1961. Bodner, Neta and Ariella Lehmann. “‘Let Man See for Himself and Feel Like Newborn After Immersion’: On the Immersion of Men, Vessels, and Public Principles in the Medieval Miqva’ot of Germany.” In Innovations-Studies in the History of German and Central European Jewry 21. Jerusalem: Leo Baeck Institute, 2019. [Hebrew]. Boyarin, Daniel. Carnal Israel. Reading Sex in Talmudic Literature. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. Burghaus, D. and J. Bernhard. “Kaiserslautern-Altenhof, Jüdische Mikwe.” In Archäologie in der Pfalz. Jahresbericht 2000, edited by Helmut Bernhard, 214–242. Rahden: Verlag Marie Leidorf, 2001. Bynum Walker, Caroline. Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. ———. Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion. New York: Zone Books, 2012. Cahana, Isaac. R. Meir ben Barukh (Maharam) of Rottenburg: Responsa, Rulings, and Customs, Vol. 2. Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook, 1990. [Hebrew]. Chazan, Robert. The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom, 1000–1500. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Cohen, Shaye. “Menstruants and the Sacred in Judaism and Christianity.” In Women’s History and Ancient History, edited by Sarah Pomeroy, 273–299. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991. ———. “Purity and Piety: The Separation of Menstruants from the Sancta.” In Daughters of the King. Women and the Synagogue, edited by Susan Grossman and Rivka Haut, 103–115. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2005. ———. “Purity, Piety, and Polemic, Medieval Rabbinic Denunciations of ‘Incorrect’ Purification Practice.” In Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law, edited by Rachel Wasserfall, 82–100. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 1999. Conklin Akbari, Suzanne and Jill Ross. “Introduction. Limits and Teleology: The Many Ends of the Body.” In The Ends of the Body: Identity and Community in Medieval Culture, edited by Suzanne Conklin Akbari and Jill Ross, 3–21. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013. Cook, Leslie. “Body Language: Women’s Rituals of Purification in the Bible and Mishnah.” In Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law, edited by Rachel Wasserfall, 41–59. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 1999. Cuffel, Alexandra. “From Practice to Polemic: Shared Saints and Festivals as ‘Women’s Religion’ in the Medieval Mediterranean.” Bulletin of School of Oriental and African Studies 68 (2005): 401–419. Deane, Jennifer. “Pious Domesticities.” In The Oxford Handbook of Women and Gender in Medieval Europe, edited by Judith Bennet and Ruth Mazo Karras, 262–278. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Delomier, Chantal. “Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux (Drôme). Ilot Juiverie.” Archéologie médiévale 45 (2015): 191. Eilberg-Schwartz, Howard. The Savage in Judaism. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1990.

142  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz Ellens, Deborah. “‘Leviticus 15’: Contrasting Conceptual Associations Regarding Women.” In Reading the Hebrew Bible for a New Millennium: Form, Concept and Theological Perspective, Vol. 2: Exegetical and Theological Studies, edited by Wonil Kim, Deborah Ellens, Michael Floyd, and Marvin A. Sweeney, 124–151. Studies in Antiquity and Christianity. Harrison: Trinity Press International, 2000. Elliott, Dyan. Proving Woman: Female Spirituality and Inquisitional Culture in the Later Middle Ages. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004. Evergates, Theodore, ed. Aristocratic Women in Medieval France. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999. Fonrobert, Charlotte Elisheva. “Yalta’s Ruse. Resistance against Rabbinic Menstrual Authority in Talmudic Literature.” In Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law, edited by Rachel Wasserfall, 60–81. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 1999. Frieser, Claudia and Birgit Friedel. “…di juden hi waren gesessen zu mittelst auf dem platz… Die ersten Nürnberger Juden und ihre Siedlung bis 1296.” In Nürnberg – Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte: …nicht eine einzige Stadt, sonder eine ganze Welt…, edited by Birgit Friedel and Claudia Frieser, 52–70. Buchenbach: Faustus, 1999. Fuchs, Stefanie. “Die Friedberger Mikwe im kunsthistorischen Vergleich.” Zeitschrift für Architekturgeschichte 7 (2017): 5–14. ———. “Die Mikwen von Speyer und Worms: aktueller Forschungsstand.” In Die jüdische Gemeinde von Erfurt und die SchUM-Gemeinden: kulturelles Erbe und Vernetzung, edited by Frank Bussert, 60–68. Erfurt: Bussert & Stadeler, 2012. Fuchs, Stefanie and Anette Weber. “Dort im Geklüft ein Bad, zierlich in Säulen umreiht.” In Ganz rein! Jüdische Ritualbäder. Eine Ausstellung der Jüdischen Museen Franken, Frankfurt am Main, Hohenems und Wien, 25–37. Wolkersdorf: Holzhausen Druck, 2010. Galor, Katharina. “Qumran’s Plastered Pools: A New Perspective.” In Science and Archaeology at Khirbet Qumran and ‘Ain Feshkha, edited by Jean-Baptiste Humbert and Jan Gunneweg, 169–198. Fribourg: Presses Universitaires de Fribourg, 2003. Galor, Katharina and Eric Meyers. “The Stepped Water Installations of the Western Summit.” In The Architecture, Stratigraphy, and Artifacts of the Western Summit of Sepphoris, Vol. 1, edited by Eric M. Meyers, Carol L. Meyers, and Benjamin D. Gordon, 419–444. Pennsylvania: Eisenbrauns, 2018. Griep, Hans-Günther. “‘Judenbäder’? Ausgrabungen und Bodenfund im Stadtgebiet Goslar.” Harz-Zeitschrift 35 (1983): 20–24. Grossman, Avraham. Pious and Rebellious. Jewish Women in Medieval Europe. Tauber Institute for the Study of European Jewry HBI Series on Jewish Women. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2004. Haller, Annette. “Die Mikwen der Gemeinde Trier. Neues Quellenmaterial aus dem 18. Jahrhundert.” Menora 4 (1993): 203–211. Harck, Ole. “Eine mittelalterliche Mikwe in Görlitz?” Görlitzer Magazin 19 (2006): 65–75. ———. Archäologische Studien zum Judentum in der europäischen Antike und dem zentraleuropäischen Mittelalter. Petersberg: Michael Imhof Verlag, 2014. Heuberger, Georg, ed. Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland. Eine Ausstellung des Jüdischen Museums der Stadt Frankfurt am Main 10. September–15. November 1992. Frankfurt am Main: Jüdisches Museum, 1992. Hezser, Catherine. Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine. Text and Studies in Ancient Judaism. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001. Horowitz, Elliott. “Between Cleanliness and Godliness: Aspects of Jewish Bathing in Medieval and Early Modern Times.” In Tov Elem: Memory, Community and Gender in

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  143 Medieval and Early Modern Jewish Societies—Essays in Honor of Robert Bonfil, edited by Elisheva Baumgarten et al., 29*–54*. Jerusalem: Bialik, 2011. Howell, Martha. Women, Production, and Patriarchy in Late Medieval Cities. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986. Hundsnurscher, Franz and Gerhard Taddey. Die jüdischen Gemeinden in Baden: Denkmale, Geschichte, Schicksale. Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer Verlag, 1968. Iancu, Carol. Les Juifs à Montpellier et dans le Languedoc. Du Moyen Âge à nos jours. Montpellier: Université Paul Valéry, Centre de recherches et d’études juives et hébraïques, 1988. Ilan, Tal. “Since When Do Women Go to Miqveh? Archaeological and Rabbinic Evidence.” In The Archaeology and Material Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, Institute of Jewish Studies, Studies in Judaica, edited by Markham Geller, 83–96. Leiden: Brill, 2015. Kaplan, Aryeh. Waters of Eden: The Mystery of the Mikveh. New York: Orthodox Union, 1982. Kayser, Christian. “‘Einen Brunnen grub er, führte auf das Gewölbe …’ Bauforschung an der Mikwe von Worms.” In Der Wormsgau. Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Stadt Worms und des Altertumsvereins Worms E. V. 33, edited by Gerold Bönnen and Irene Spille, 7–28. Worms: Stadtarchiv Worms der Werner’sche Verlagsgeschellschaft, 2018. Keßler, Katrin. “Jüdische Ritualbäder in Deutschland–Typologie und Entwicklungsgeschichte.” INSITU. Zeitschrift für Architekturgeshichte 7 (2015): 197–212. ———. “The Jewish Ritual Bath in Germany: Evolution and Statistics.” In Jewish Architecture – New Sources and Approaches, edited by Katrin Keßler and Alexander von Kienlin, 53–75. Petersberg: Michael Imhof Verlag, 2015. Kingreen, Monica. Das Judenbad und die Judengasse in Friedberg. Wetterauer Geschichtsblätter. Beiträge zur Geschichte und Landeskunde, Vol. 56. Friedberg: Verlag der Buchhandlung Bindernagel, 2008. Kliemann, Katja and Sebastian Ristow. “Köln und das frühe Judentum nördlich der Alpen– Kontinuität, Umbruch oder Neubeginn?” Mitteilungen der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Archäologie des Mittelalters und der Neuzeit 31 (2018): 9–20. Knoppers, Gary N. Jews and Samaritans. The Origins and History of Their Early Relations. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Koren, Sharon Faye. Forsaken. The Menstruant in Medieval Jewish Mysticism. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2011. Krakowski, Eve. “Maimonides’ Menstrual Reform in Egypt.” Jewish Quarterly Review 110, no. 2 (2020): 245–289. Krienke, Dieter. “Weisenau—Synagoge und Mikwen. “Wiederentdeckung” und Rettung der Weisenauer Synagoge.” In Die Mainzer Synagogen, Sonderheft der Mainzer Geschichtsblätter, edited by Hedwig Brüchert, 119–136. Mainz: Verein für Sozialgeschichte, 2008. Kuehn, Thomas and Anne Jacobson Schutte. “Introduction.” In Time, Space, and Women’s Lives in Early Modern Europe, edited by Anne Jacobson Schutte, Thomas Kuehn, and Silvana Seidel Menchi, ix–xiii. Kirksville: Truman State University Press, 2001. Künzl, Hannelore. “Mikwen in Antike und Mittelalter.” In Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland. Eine Ausstellung des Jüdischen Museums der Stadt Frankfurt am Main 10. September–15. November 1992, edited by Georg Heuberger, 25–43. Frankfurt am Main: Jüdisches Museum, 1992. Löwenstein, Leopold. Zur Geschichte der Juden in Friedberg. Blätter für jüdische Literatur und Geschichte 4, no. 2. Berlin: Verband der Vereine für Jüdische Geschichte und Literatur in Deutschland, 1903.

144  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz Marcus, Ivan. Piety and Society: The Jewish Pietists of Medieval Germany. Leiden: Brill, 1981. ———. Rituals of Childhood. Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996. ———. “Honey Cakes and Torah: A Jewish Boy Learns His Letters.” In Judaism in Practice: From the Middle Ages Through the Early Modern Period. Princeton Readings in Religions, edited by Lawrence Fine, 115–130. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001. Marienberg, Evyatar. “Le bain des Mélunaises: Les juifs médiévaux et l’eau froide des bains rituels.” Médiévales 43 (2002): 91–101. Meacham, Tirzah. “An Abbreviated History of the Development of the Jewish Menstrual Laws.” In Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law, edited by Rachel Wasserfall, 23–39. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 1999. Metzger, Therese and Mendel Metzger. Jüdisches Leben im Mittelalter nach illuminierten hebräischen Handschriften vom 13. bis 16. Jahrhundert. Würzburg: Edition Popp, 1983. Milgrom, Jacob. Leviticus 1–16, AB, 3. New York: Doubleday, 1991. Millard, Alan. “The Practice of Writing in Ancient Israel.” The Biblical Archaeologist 35, no. 4 (1972): 98–111. Millás Vallicrosa, José Maria. “Descubrimento de una miqwah en la población de Besalú.” Sefarad 25 (1967): 67–69. Miller, Stuart. At the Intersection of Texts and Material Finds: Stepped Pools, Stone Vessels, and Ritual Purity among the Jews of Roman Galilee. Journal of Ancient Judaism: Supplements, Vol. 16. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015. Moelin, Jacob and Zalman of St. Goar. Sefer Maharil: Minhagim, edited by Shlomo J. Spitzer. Jerusalem: Mif’al torat hakhme Ashkenaz: Mekhon Yerushalayim, 1989. [Hebrew]. Mordechai, Eliav. Jüdische Erziehung in Deutschland im Zeitalter der Aufklärung und der Emanzipation. Jüdische Bildungsgeschichte in Deutschland, Vol. 2. Münster: Waxmann Verlag, 2000. Müller, Arnd. Geschichte der Juden in Nürnberg 1146–1945. Nürnberg: Selbstverlag Der Stadtbibliothek, 1968. Narkiss, Bezalel. Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts. Jerusalem and New York: Encylopaedia Judaica and Macmillan, 1969. Nicol, Falk. “Die mittelalterliche Mikwe von Sondershausen.” In Juden in Schwarzburg. Festschrift zu Ehren Prof. Philipp Heidenheims (1814–1906), Rabbiner in Sondershausen, anlässlich seines 100. Todestages. Herausgegeben vom Schlossmuseum Sondershausen, Vol. 1. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Juden Schwarzburgs, edited by Bettina Bärnighausen, 87–92. Dresden: Sandstein, 2006. Nicol, Falk and Diethard Walter. “Ausgrabung und Präsentation eines mittelalterlichen Ritualbades in Sondershausen.” In Synagogen, Mikwen, Siedlungen: Jüdisches Alltagsleben im Lichte neuer archäologischer Funde. Schriften des Archäologischen Museums Frankfurt 19, edited by Egon Warners and Fritz Backhaus, 193–202. Regensburg: Verlag Schnell & Steiner, 2004. Noam, Vered. “Beit Shammai and the Sectarian Halakha.” Jewish Studies: Journal of the World Union of Jewish Studies 41 (2005): 45–67. Perry, Micha. “Imaginary Space Meets Actual Space in Thirteenth-Century Cologne: Eliezer Ben Joel and the Eruv.” Images 5, no. 1 (2011): 26–36. Posen, Meir. “Die Mikwe als Grundlage jüdischen Lebens.” In Mikwe: Geschichte und Architektur jüdischer Ritualbäder in Deutschland. Eine Ausstellung des Jüdischen

Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz  145 Museums der Stadt Frankfurt am Main 10. September – 15. November 1992, edited by Georg Heuberger, 1–8. Frankfurt am Main: Jüdisches Museum, 1992. Rees Jones, Sarah. “Public and Private Space and Gender in Medieval Europe.” In The Oxford Handbook of Women and Gender in Medieval Europe, edited by Judith Bennett and Ruth Mazo Karras, 246–258. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Regev, Eyal. “Pure Individualism: The Idea of Non-Priestly Purity in Ancient Judaism.” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period 31, no. 2 (2000): 176–202. Reich, Ronny. “Mishnah, Sheqalim 8:2 and the Archaeological Evidence.” In Perakim be-toldot Yerushalayim bi-yeme Bayit Sheni: sefer zikaron le-Avraham Shalit, edited by Aharon Oppenheimer et al., 225–256. Jerusalem: Sifriyah le-toldot ha-yishuv ha-Yehudi be-Erets Yisrael, 1980. [Hebrew]. ———. “The Synagogue and the Miqweh in Eretz-Israel in the Second Temple, Mishnaic, and Talmudic Periods.” In Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological Data, Vol. 1, edited by Dan Urman and Paul V. M. Flesher, 289–297. Leiden: Brill, 1995. ———. Miqwa’ot (Jewish Ritual Baths) in the Second Temple, Mishnaic, and Talmudic Periods. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Avi and Israel Exploration Society, 2013. [Hebrew]. Romney Wegner, Judith. “‘Coming Before the Lord’: The Exclusion of Women from the Public Domain of the Israelite Priestly Cult.” In The Book of Leviticus. Composition and Reception, Supplements to Vetus Testamentum, Vol. 93, edited by Rolf Rendtorff and Robert Kugler, 451–465. Leiden: Brill, 2003. Ross, Jill and Suzanne Conklin Akbari, eds. The Ends of the Body: Identity and Community in Medieval Culture. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013. Ruane, Nicole. “Bathing, Status and Gender in Priestly Ritual.” In A Question of Sex: Gender and Difference in the Hebrew Bible and Beyond, edited by Deborah Rooke, 66–81. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007. Schostak, Désirée. Zwischen Gesundheit und Gebot: Der Wandel der Mikwe im Zeitalter der Emanzipation ... Das jüdische rituelle Tauchbad (Mikwe) zwischen Gesundheit und religiösem Gebot. Unterrichtsmaterialien zur jüdischen Emanzipation in Baden. Berlin: Hochschule für Jüdische Studien Heidelberg und Stiftung Verantwortung Zukunft, 2016. Schütte, Sven. “Die Juden in Köln von der Antike bis zum Hochmittelalter. Beiträge zur Diskussion zum frühen Judentum nördlich der Alpen.” In Synagogen, Mikwen, Siedlungen: Jüdisches Alltagsleben im Lichte neuer archäologischer Funde. Schriften des Archäologischen Museums Frankfurt 19, edited by Egon Warners and Fritz Backhaus, 73–116. Regensburg: Verlag Schnell & Steiner, 2004. Sczech, Karin. “Bericht zur Stadtarchäologie im Jahr 2008.” Mitteilungen des Vereins für die Geschichte und Altertumskunde von Erfurt 79, no. 17 (2009): 122–138. ———. “Bericht zur Stadtarchäologie im Jahr 2010 und 2011.” Mitteilungen des Vereins für die Geschichte und Altertumskunde von Erfurt 79, no. 17 (2009): 267–294. ———. “Die Erfurter Mikwe.” In Erfurter Schriften zur Jüdischen Geschichte 1, Die jüdische Gemeinde von Erfurt und die SchUM-Gemeinden. Kulturelles Erbe und Vernetzung, edited by Frank Bussert, Sarah Laubenstein, and Maria Stürzebecher, 70– 77. Landeshauptstadt Erfurt Stadtverwaltung, Jena: Verlag Bussert & Stadeler, 2012. Seifert, Sylvia. “Einblicke in das Leben jüdischer Frauen in Regensburg.” In Regensburger Frauenspuren. Eine historische Entdeckungsreise, edited by Ute Kätzel and Karin Schrott, 86–106. Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1995.

146  Ritual Purity in Medieval Ashkenaz Shalev-Eyni, Sarit. “Purity and Impurity in the Naked Woman Bathing in Jewish and Christian Art.” In Between Judaism and Christianity. Art Historical Essays in Honor of Ellisheva (Elisabeth) Revel-Neher, edited by Katrin Kogmann-Appel and Mati Meyer, 191–214. Leiden: Brill, 2008. ———. “The Bared Breast in Medieval Ashkenazi Illumination: Cultural Connotations in a Heterogeneous Society.” Different Visions 5 (2014): 1–39. Stein, Günter. Judenhof und Judenbad in Speyer am Rhein. Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1978. ———. “Der mittelalterliche Judenhof und seine Bauten.” In Geschichte der Juden in Speyer. Beitrage zur Speyerer Stadtgeschichte 6, edited by Historischer Verein der Pfalz, 48–64. Speyer: Die Bezirksgruppe Speyer des Historischen Vereins Pfalz, 1981. Stein, Günther and Heinz-Josef Engels. “Die Grabung im Speyerer Judenhof 1965–1968.” Pfälzer Heimat 22 (1971): 97–110. Süss, Hans-Peter. “Jüdische Archäologie im nördlichen Bayern. Franken und Oberfranken.” Arbeiten zur Archäologie Süddeutschlands 25, 104–106. Büchenbach: Faustus, 2010. Szulmajster-Celnikier, Anne and Marie-Christine Bornes Varol. “Émergence et évolution parallèle de deux langues juives: Yidiche et judéo-espagnol.” La linguistique 53, no. 2 (2017): 199–236. Vetterling, Claus. “‘..​.in der Kesslergass auf der Judenschul genannt’–Eine Mikwe in der Bamberger Inselstadt.” In Das archäologische Jahr in Bayern 2003, 137–138. Stuttgart: Konrad Theiss, 2004. Vincent, Louis-Hugues and Marie-Joseph Steve. Jérusalem de l’ancien testament: recherches d’archéologie et d’histoire, Vol. 1. Paris: J. Gabalda, 1954. Wasserfall, Rachel, ed. Women and Water: Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 1999. Waton, Marie Dominique. “Des bains juifs à Strasbourg.” Cahiers alsaciens d’archéologie, d’art et d’histoire 29 (1986): 53–59. Weber, Anette. “Neue Argumente für das mittelalterliche Aschkenas? Zur Sakraltypologie der Ritualbauten in den SchUM-Gemeinden.” In Die SchUM-Gemeinden SpeyerWorms-Main: auf dem Weg zum Welterbe. Beitrage der Internationalen Tagung “Die SchUM-Gemeinden Speyer–Worms–Mainz. Auf dem Weg zum Welterbe” vom 22.–24. November 2011 im Landesmuseum Mainz, edited by Pia Heberer, 37–62. Regensburg: Schneel & Steiner, 2013. Wenninger, Markus. “Grenzen in der Stadt? Zu Lage und Abgrenzung mittelalterlicher deutscher Judenviertel.” Aschkenas – Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kultur der Juden 14 (2004): 9–29. Weyl, Robert and Martine Weyl. “La fresque de la cour du bain des juifs.” Revue des études juives 157 (1998): 171–378. Woolf, Jeffrey. The Fabric of Religious Life in Medieval Ashkenaz (1000–1300). Creating Sacred Communities. Études sur le judaïsme médiéval, Vol. 30. Leiden: Brill, 2015. Wright, David. The Disposal of Impurity: Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamia Literature. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987. Wrobel, Sharon. “In First, UNESCO Grants World Heritage Status to ‘Jerusalem on the Rhine,’ Jewish Cultural Sites in Germany.” The Algemeiner, July 28, 2021. Yadin, Yagael. Masada: Herod’s Fortress and the Zealot’s Last Stand. New York: Random House, 1966.

3

Sacred Space in Papal Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin

Architectural Jewels and Caves An elegant Louis XV period cartouche above the main entrance portal of the Cavaillon synagogue, known locally as escolo (school or école, French), reads, “This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter into it.” Crafted from stone by the L’Isle-sur-Sorgue1 sculptor Jean-Joseph Charmot, it quotes Psalms 118:20 and references the rebuilt Temple of Jerusalem (Figure 3.1).2 While this text is generally understood to address the “righteous nation” as a whole, at Cavaillon, the inscription appears to address only the community’s men. The women, instead, accessed their prayer room through a separate door, leading to the cavernous lower level of the same building. This architectural concept, clearly discriminating against Cavaillon’s Jewish women—like those of three other regional synagogues— shows how worship created a highly hierarchal distinction between women and men. While no other Jewish house of worship ever found so extreme a solution for its relegation of women, other areas of devotional piety indicate women’s increasingly dominant place in engaging with Judaism’s biblical and post-biblical traditions. As of 1624, four significant houses of worship served the regional population of Jews—at Avignon, in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue, Cavaillon, and Carpentras—though only the latter two survived the French Revolution of 1789.3 The eighteenth-century synagogues of Cavaillon and Carpentras are standing testimonies of a close-knit community that lived at the margins of the region’s Christian society. Living under considerable legal and social constraints defined largely by their papal overlords, the Jews of Avignon and the Comtat managed to forge a distinct cultural legacy. Anchored in biblical and Talmudic traditions, their houses and rituals of worship incorporated a unique mix of Italian, French, and Provençal linguistic and artistic traits. While the synagogues were clearly the most important buildings in the four towns—architecturally and otherwise—the sources also tell us about other aspects of the urban landscape. They describe the water and sewage system, various commercial and industrial installations, the hospitals, and the prisons. While indistinguishable from the surrounding buildings, these synagogues were remarkable in terms of their rich interior decor, bringing together sacred traditions of the Israelite and Jewish past with contemporary features of Italian synagogues and Louis XV Frenchstyle artisanry. In contrast to most of Avignon’s and the Comtadin Jews’ civic and economic duties, responsibilities, and rights, which were regulated by external powers, the Jewish communities’ religious customs and gendered norms were largely DOI:  10.4324/9781003440499-4

148  Sacred Space

Figure 3.1  Louis XV eighteenth-century cartouche above entrance of Cavaillon synagogue, France, reading “This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter through.”. Photo by Katharina Galor.

shaped internally. Beyond the abundant documents concerned with the Jewish communities’ secular and commercial domains, only a few testimonies relate to their spiritual beliefs and practices. Most archival material at our disposal concerns the actual construction, repairs, and destruction of the synagogues, which are helpful to establish some of the architectural solutions applied to integrate the female worshippers, while at the same time creating a clear spatial separation and hierarchy.4 Women’s participation in biblical and postbiblical worship and the question of whether they should be active participants in rituals, liturgy, and prayer have been highly debated. Modern and contemporary legacies of ancient and medieval customs vary in their interpretations of gendered roles and have proposed numerous solutions to spatial arrangements of seating in synagogues. These range from the exclusion of women, strict segregation between women and men, hierarchical gendered spaces, or egalitarian solutions in worship. Textual references as well as the surviving remnants of the Avignon and Comtadin synagogues seem to suggest that the bright, carefully designed, and richly decorated upper levels were reserved for the men, and the dark, lower-level, “cave-like” spaces for the women.

Sacred Space  149 Architecturally, hardly any other synagogue tradition discriminates against Jewish women as visibly as do the synagogues of this papal enclave in today’s Vaucluse. Yet some surprising elements suggest that women were not without agency. The Jews of the Pope From the thirteenth century through the French Revolution in 1789, the Comtat Venaissin (as of 1274) and Avignon (as of 1348), located in southern France in a selfcontained enclave between the Rhône, the Durance, and Mont Ventoux, were part of the papal territories. At the beginning of the thirteenth century, the region and a number of other districts along the Rhône belonged to Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse. After prolonged tension and fights among Raymond VI, Louis IX of France, and the Holy See, the last took possession of the territory in 1274.5 With the exception of short interludes when this area came under the control of the French kings, its entire population were subjects of the popes until 1791.6 Following the Revolution, after having suffered centuries of discrimination and persecution, Jews became citizens with equal rights. The majority migrated and settled mostly in other parts of France.7 By the late thirteenth century, there were about 30 settlements of Jews, including those of Avignon and the Comtat.8 After 1624, however, Jews were confined to live within only four towns: Avignon, Carpentras, Cavaillon, and L’Isle-sur-Sorgue. Known as the arbah kehilot (the four communities) or les quatre saintes (the four holy [congregations]), each of them had their synagogue and cemetery, and life was restricted to mostly one or two designated streets located in an area separated from the rest of the town, the so-called carrières (Jewish Quarters). The rabbis who were hired—primarily to instruct boys until the age of 15 to study the Bible and its commentaries—came from distant regions and usually didn’t stay long. The communities, or the rabbis that led them, did not distinguish themselves in their scholarly activities.9 Apart from a few liturgical and literary texts that were authored by Jews, very few internal official or legal documents, including the escamots, the laws of the carrières, have survived.10 Most of our historical knowledge of the Jewish population is derived from administrative and legal documents written and deposited by the notaires (notaries), representing the governing agencies.11 Based on these texts, along with the actual surviving material remains, we know that the Jews of Avignon and the Comtat developed their own unique rituals and cultural traditions (distinct from both Ashkenazi and Sephardic customs). Yet these remained provincial, with little impact on Jewish traditions in other parts of Europe. Ironically, as the synagogues, specifically their décor, became increasingly lavish, they started to lose their centrality in the community’s lives. In contrast to the men’s upper levels, the lower levels were reserved for women, speaking to the latter’s marginal if not subjugated role. How this spatial organization reflects gendered hierarchies in the Jerusalem Temple, as well as ancient and medieval synagogues around the Mediterranean, and how contemporary houses of worship, other than those that existed in the papal territories of northern Provence, spatially accommodated women in their buildings, sheds light on the exceptional architectural features of the Avignon and Comtat synagogues. The Carrières To fully appreciate the role of the synagogue as the most important public monument within the pope’s Jewish agglomerations, a brief overview of their urban

150  Sacred Space context will highlight the most significant aspects and their changes over time. From late antiquity through the beginning of the fourteenth century, the Jews of southern France enjoyed relative freedom, a situation that initially continued under the feudal system of the Middle Ages.12 Their fate in other parts of France was different, especially when in 1306 Philippe the Fair expelled the Jews from his kingdom. Many migrated to Avignon and the Comtat, where they lived under somewhat better conditions than elsewhere in Europe. It appears that despite the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215, according to which Jews were required to live in separate quarters, most continued to live among their neighbors. Given their shared religious practices and cultural affinities, it was natural, however, that many chose to live within proximity of each other voluntarily and established their own neighborhoods. In Carpentras, for instance, we know of the existence of a street referred to as the Vieille Juiverie.13 Others instead lived among Christians or in the countryside. Though we can establish that Jews were frequently harassed, repeatedly persecuted, and occasionally even expelled from their homes and towns until the mid-fifteenth century, they were allowed to travel freely and to live anywhere they chose within this region. These privileges, however, were to change when Pope Eugene IV issued a bull in 1442 according to which all Jews had to live within a designated area, cut off from the rest of the population. Despite repeated appeals brought before several successive popes and objections to residing within these carrières—which also started to emerge in other parts of Europe around the same time, though only in the sixteenth century in Rome—Jews were ultimately ordered to live within these designated quarters (Figure 3.2). Some official documents refer to the carrières as Juaterie (1396), Juzatoria (1495), Juerie (1566), Juifverie (1570), Juiverie (1776), and rue des Juifs (1806).14 Local Jews, however, used a variation of the Hebrew word for path or street, mesilla, pronouncing it mefilla (plural mefillot).15 While there is documentation that some carrières were established as early as the fifteenth century—including in Cavaillon, L’Isle-sur-Sorgue (in 1453), Avignon (in 1458), Carpentras (in 1460), and Pernes (in 1504)—other towns inhabited by Jews lack clear evidence for a separate Jewish Quarter. We know, for instance, that Jews also lived in Aubignan, Beaumes, Bédarrides, Bollène, Caderousse, Calcernier, Châteauneuf de Giraud, Amic (today Châteauneuf-de-Gadagne), Entraigues, Malaucène, Mazan, Monteux, Mormoiron, Mornas, Sainte-Cécile, Vaison, and Valréas. But it is difficult, if not impossible, to determine whether they lived apart from their Christian neighbors or alongside each other. In 1569, Pope Pius V expelled Jews from all papal states, with the exception of Rome and Ancona. While there were obstacles to and complications with forcing Jews to leave Avignon and the Comtat, the consequences of the pope’s bull were felt there as well. In 1623 and 1624, most Jews in those regions had to abandon their homes and were ordered to live exclusively within one of the four designated carrières of Avignon (Figure 3.3), Carpentras (Figure 3.4), L’Isle-sur-Sorgue (Figure 3.5), and Cavaillon (Figure 3.6). From this period onward and until the Revolution, the carrières were located within the approximate center of the towns.16 This has been understood as a strategic position allowing their Christian neighbors both to protect the Jews as well as

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Figure 3.2  Carrière of Cavaillon, view from synagogue towards south. Photo by Katharina Galor.

to control their whereabouts and daily activities. Based on early nineteenth-century travel diaries, the historian and archivist of the Vaucluse, Hyacinthe Chobaut, summarizes the urban layout and design of these four Jewish enclaves as follows: A long and poorly cleaned street, giving access to short blind alleys, was closed at each end by gates firmly locked at night. At Carpentras, the street was very

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Figure 3.3  General plan and location of the second Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of Avignon, 1819 (section KK). Original scale 1/2500. Author of the original document: Guillon Père. Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur – Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-007/42.

narrow, lined with tall and not very solidly built houses up to ten stories high. Since Jews were forbidden to spread out horizontally they had to increase their homes vertically. Buildings were frequently divided among multiple owners. The poor occupied the upper levels. The units were filthy, tight, poorly ventilated and lit, the stairs tortuous, the chimneys badly built and hazardous. The tenants of the upper levels lifted baskets, filled with goods delivered for them in the streets, with pulleys and ropes. The Christian population of Carpentras would tenaciously prevent the Jews from expanding their properties by acquiring new buildings beyond the boundaries of their carrière. At Avignon, in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue and Cavaillon, where the quarters of the Jews were less cramped, the Jewish neighborhoods were slightly more appealing. The buildings were lower and the living spaces less dense, more airy, and better lit.17 Among the public institutions that served the community of the carrières—beyond the synagogue and its auxiliary buildings, including ovens, the cabassadou (ritual pool), and the occasional yessuva (religious school)—were taverns, offering kosher wine, which were supposedly kept by women, as well as bakeries selling among other goods coudolles (Figure 3.7).18 The latter were made from a mixture of water,

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Figure 3.4  General plan and location of the Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of Carpentras, 1834 (section K). Original scale 1/1250. Author of the original document: Cournaud Auguste. Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur – Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-031/24.

oil, wine, and sugar, and though traditionally baked for the Jewish Passover, they were especially popular with the Christian population. We know of public latrines, which at Avignon and in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue were built against the wall of the synagogue. A communal fountain was located in a public square in the Jewish Quarter of Avignon, just in front of the synagogue; there was also one in Cavaillon. In L’Isle-sur-Sorgue a washhouse served as the public supplier of water to the whole town. In Carpentras, Jews had to fetch water from fountains that belonged to the Christians. The slaughter for the supply of kosher meat usually took place outside the carrière.19 A proper butcher, called a mazeau, however, existed only at Avignon.20 In Carpentras a jail served the local Jewish population. Prisoners were seemingly allowed to spend the night in their homes, and women could not be incarcerated at all.21 The Jews also had their own cemeteries, which were always located outside of their quarter, sometimes even beyond the town or city limits.22 To be able to visually distinguish the “unfaithful” from the “faithful,” the Fourth Council of the Lateran in 1215 ordered Jews in Christian Europe to wear distinctive markings, which varied in shape and color depending on place and period. In thirteenth-century Avignon, Jews wore, for instance, the rota or rouelle, which

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Figure 3.5  General plan and location of the Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, 1791. Authors of the original document: Roselyne Anziani and Auguste Cournaud. Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-043/30.

looked like a circular white or yellow badge.23 A number of bulls issued by various popes during the fifteenth century tried to reiterate this request, which revealed itself as too discrete and easily concealable. Thus, during the sixteenth century, it was replaced by the more noticeable yellow cone-shaped hat for men, and for girls and women, a yellow piece of cloth or ribbon.24 These markers were meant to prevent undesirable contact—commercial, professional, personal, and most importantly sexual—between Christians and Jews.25 From Temple to Synagogues To fully appreciate the place of the synagogue of Avignon and the Comtat within the larger context of Jewish worship, I first provide a summary of the history of Israelite and Jewish sanctuaries, followed by a brief outline of synagogues from antiquity through modern times. This architectural survey serves as a basis to engage the performance of piety in public settings, especially in relation to the community’s gender dynamics.26 While the Tabernacle and the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem defined social hierarchies spatially—other than being relevant with regard to gender, a distinction was also made among male priests

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Figure 3.6  General plan and location of the Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster of Cavaillon, 1832 (section G1, plot 294). Author of the reproduced illustration: Sarah Bossy. Copyright: Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur - Inventaire général et archives départementales de Vaucluse, Avignon, 3 P 2-035/28

(Cohens), Levites, and Israelites—synagogues gradually erased differences among its male congregants. Women’s place in public worship was clearly more complex and varied. In the papal synagogues of southern France, the status of women was certainly severely compromised. Their role in shaping devotional piety and performance, however, had taken other forms of expression, and despite the conservative spatial solution used in these southern French synagogues, women found other ways to assert their role in shaping Judaism. It appears that the female members of the Comtadin communities were in fact ahead of their contemporaries in most other regions where Jews left architectural and literary testimonies of public worship. To evaluate the biblical and post-biblical legacies within the synagogues of the French papal communities the focus in this section is on how the Israelite and early Jewish sanctuaries developed architecturally from antiquity through modern times and on how these earlier building traditions were combined with various contemporary architectural and decorative styles prevalent in France and Italy. While the exact origin date of the first synagogues is debated, the earliest epigraphic and archaeological evidence was coterminous with the Temple in Jerusalem.27 According to the biblical account, the First Jewish Temple built was built by King Solomon in the tenth century BCE to replace the Tabernacle, the portable earthly dwelling place of Yahweh used by the Israelites from the Exodus

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Figure 3.7  Cavaillon synagogue basement with remains of former women’s section including oven for baking bread and the traditional coudolles. Photo by Katharina Galor.

until the conquest of Canaan (Exodus 25:31 and 35:40). This movable sanctuary housed the Ark of the Covenant, which contained the two stone tablets of the Ten Commandments that Moses received from God (Exodus 19:20 and 24:18). To centralize worship as much as the political power in one designated place, King David initiated the plan of building a permanent sanctuary on Mount Moriah in Jerusalem, which his son Solomon executed when he took over the rule of the United Kingdom. Destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, the First Temple was rebuilt under Persian rule some 50 years later. In the second half of the first century BCE, King Herod the Great refurbished the compound by constructing an enormous platform with a new temple on top (Figure 3.8). In Jewish tradition, both newer versions (the sixth and the first centuries BCE reconstructions) are considered the Second Jewish Temple. The Second Temple period ended when the Roman general Titus destroyed the Herodian compound in 70 CE, with largely only the enclosure walls surviving (Figure 3.9).28 This was also the beginning of a completely new era in Judaism, specifically with regard to the way Jews worshipped and practiced their religion. During the time of the Jerusalem temples, only a select coterie of priests could access the inside of the sanctuary, and only the high priest could enter the Holy of Holies once a year during the festival of Yom Kippur. Worshippers and pilgrims, instead, were relegated to the outer courtyards. While synagogues built after

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Figure 3.8  Herod’s Temple Mount compound, prior to 70 CE destruction. Holy Land Model, Israel Museum, Jerusalem. Photo by Berthold Werner. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Jerusalem​_Modell​_BW​_2​.JPG.

Figure 3.9  Western Wall section of Herodian Temple Mount enclosure wall, Jerusalem. Photo by Gary Todd. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​ :16​-03​-30​-Klagemauer​_Jerusalem​_RalfR​-DSCF7673​.jpg.

158  Sacred Space the destruction of the Second Temple—specifically the furnishings and decorative elements—were increasingly referencing both the vanished Tabernacle and the destroyed Jerusalem temples, their purpose and usage were strikingly different from these earlier sanctuaries.29 Synagogues, unlike the First and Second Temples, could be built anywhere a community was formed. More important, these multifunctional buildings were used for prayer and study rather than for animal sacrifices.30 The beginning of scholarly interest in the Jerusalem compound emerged in the early nineteenth century.31 It would take close to a century, however, before architectural historians and archaeologists Heinrich Kohl and Carl Watzinger conducted the first surveys of ancient synagogues, with some limited excavations, in the Galilee and Golan.32 In the 1930s, archaeologist Eleazar Lipa Sukenik carried out the first proper excavation of a synagogue (at Beth Alpha) and outlined an initial architectural typology and chronology of Roman and Byzantine synagogues, later revised and refined through the discovery of more than one hundred ancient synagogues.33 These came to light primarily in ancient Palestine, but also in various locations throughout the Mediterranean, including in Italy, Greece, Asia Minor, and Tunisia. The earliest epigraphic evidence of ancient synagogues comes from secondcentury BCE Egypt.34 In Palestine, only a handful of synagogues that have survived were used over the course of the last decades of the functioning Herodian Temple. These Second Temple period synagogues barely have distinct architectural features, and their function as Jewish houses of worship depends largely on contextual evidence.35 It is only decades if not centuries after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple that a distinct and easily identifiable synagogue architecture emerged, where both the building itself and its decorative elements increasingly referenced the desert Tabernacle and more specifically the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem.36 The orientation of Roman and Byzantine period synagogues, in Palestine and in the diaspora, was commonly toward Jerusalem. The most important element within the building was the Ark of the Law, containing the Torah scrolls. While likely a movable structure in the earliest synagogue design, sometime toward the late Roman period a permanent space, an apse or niche, was introduced within the building, thus providing a visible feature meant to allude physically to the ark of the Tabernacle and the later Jerusalem Temple.37 Other furnishings or decorative elements found frequently in synagogues that recall the earlier sanctuaries were the seven-branched candelabra (menoroth) and the eternal light (ner tamid). These could be actual three-dimensional utilitarian objects, sculpted images on lintels, friezes, and capitals, or else iconographic renderings on wall paintings or mosaic floors. Synagogues from antiquity and late antiquity already suggest that several architectural and decorative styles coexisted. Buildings adopted distinct regional and cultural traditions and reflected a range of spiritual values and economic means, ranging from simple and sparsely decorated houses of worship to sophisticated structures with a rich décor. Some would restrict their iconographic repertoire to exclusively vegetal and geometric motifs, while others included painted and sculpted renderings of animals and human beings.38

Sacred Space  159 A similarly rich variety of architectural styles and attitudes toward what is permissible or forbidden in décor can be found in medieval synagogues. Regional trends with more marked differences than in antiquity may be the result of the less homogenous Jewish communities throughout Europe, as well as a more developed architectural dialogue with contemporary churches and secular building styles.39 The synagogues of Ashkenaz, Bohemia, and Poland, for instance, were strikingly different from the synagogues of Spain, Italy, and Portugal. Furthermore, sixteenththrough eighteenth-century Eastern Europe saw two fundamentally distinct architectural traditions: masonry synagogues on the one hand and wooden synagogues on the other. Both trends were completely different in style from contemporary synagogues built in Western and Central Europe.40 Yet, the key elements that link each synagogue—regardless of plan, elevations, and decorative themes—to the biblical Tabernacle and the Jewish temples in Jerusalem are the ark and the menorah. Consistent with these crucial visual references, the reading of the Torah, as a reminder of the Israelite heritage, has taken a central role in Jewish worship, a persistent feature that was introduced after the destruction of the Second Temple. The bimah, the platform from which the Torah is read, can be understood as the principal influence on the synagogue’s plan, which both textually and visually references the ancient sanctuaries. The platform, supposed to be made of wood, is meant to refer to the wooden pulpit from which Ezra read the Law (Nehemiah 8:4).41 Like ancient and late antique synagogues, the synagogues of Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin were more than just simple gathering places for prayer.42 They also served educational purposes, where young and old would come to study the Bible and the Talmud, and where the community and the groups’ counselors would gather and make important decisions, including some that did not relate directly to religious matters. It is for this reason that Jews of the region referred to the structure and its auxiliary buildings as the escolo (in Provençal), not much different from Alsatian Jews who used the term choule (shul).43 During the sixteenth century, numerous synagogues existed in the region of the Comtat. However, as of the seventeenth century, the number was reduced to four, one in each of the designated carrières. Significant reconstructions and renovations were carried out during the eighteenth century in all four houses of worship. Unlike the buildings of L’Isle-surSorgue and Avignon, which were almost fully destroyed, those of Carpentras and Cavaillon have largely remained intact to this day. While there is no documentation regarding the date of the earliest synagogue in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue, we know of significant renovations that were carried out as of 1732. These include the construction of a terrace (measuring 40 square meters) extending behind and to the side of the building, repair work of the staircase and the ceiling, and the addition of a new door for the women’s prayer section, all of which were overseen by the renowned L’Isle-sur-Sorgue architect, Esprit-Joseph Brun. Avignon architect François Franque designed the wrought-iron balustrade.44 During the Revolution, the synagogue of L’Isle-sur-Sorgue was badly damaged and ultimately, in the mid-nineteenth century, ordered demolished. After significant damage incurred during the civil war in 1793, the building no longer served as a house of worship. Additional harm to the surviving structure was caused by a

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Figure 3.10  Aerial view of 2022 excavations exposing the foundations of the synagogue in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. Courtesy of the Ville de L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue – Service Communication.

fire. But it was not until 1857 that its ruins were razed to the ground.45 The foundations of the original synagogue, recently excavated, enabled the determination of its precise location as well as the size of the women’s section, on top of which the men’s prayer hall was built (Figure 3.10).46 Motivated by a competitive drive to build the most beautiful synagogue, Avignon soon followed suit to L’Isle’s community and initiated its own reconstruction campaign in 1765 to replace the original medieval structure erected in 1220. The task was entrusted to local architect Jean-Baptiste Franque.47 To authorize the transformations, the archbishop and the inquisitor sent their vicar to inspect the building’s condition. His description of the synagogue prior to the ambitious renovations constitutes the only source that can help us reconstruct some of the building’s features. He describes a horseshoe-shaped staircase leading to a vestibule opening toward the main prayer hall (9 by 8 meters). Two doors led into the space, one wooden and the other iron. Opposite a niche in the east—in front of which stood two painted and gilded wooden columns and a wrought-iron balustrade—a tribune could be accessed by way of two opposite staircases. Each of them led to the centrally positioned canopy on top of the tribune, which extended along the far western wall. The vicar also wrote about the painted and gilded ceiling, the gilded leather tapestry, the windows, the large and the small terraces (hazarot), and finally the women’s section.48 Given the overall dilapidated state of the building, the desired renovations were approved. Shortly after the completion of the work in 1774, Vandebrande, a traveler from

Sacred Space  161 Bordeaux, visited the newly rebuilt synagogue, and left an account full of praise and admiration: A dozen steps give access to the synagogue, a beautiful square building. The walls are paneled and covered with gilt and blue paint. In the east, an appealing balustrade surrounds a wooden platform, reserved for those select Jews who lead the prayers. At the center of the platform stands the tabernacle in which are kept God’s commandments and the writings of Moses, inscribed on a sort of rolled-up parchment which the rabbi covers with a crimson velvet cap trimmed in gold. A curtain is drawn over the tabernacle, which according to popular belief holds the head of Moses. Twelve crystal chandeliers and thirteen magnificent lamps, lit only on holidays, hover near the ceiling of the tabernacle. Only one, referred to as the eternal light, burns permanently … A series of columns support a gallery with a wrought-iron balustrade, which extends along the walls of the synagogue […].49 Based on these literary accounts, it appears that other than the decorative details, the newly renovated building was similar in design and layout to the earlier synagogue. This structure, however, too, has left nothing behind but these brief references, and a general architectural concept and tradition that has survived in the Comtadin synagogues of Cavaillon and Carpentras. In 1845, the Avignon synagogue was ravaged by fire and replaced by a neoclassical structure initially designed by engineer Jules Duchesne and completed by architect Joseph Auguste Joffroy in 1848 (Figure 3.11).50

Figure 3.11  Avignon synagogue, built in 1848 in place of the former destroyed synagogues, France. Photo by Françoise Baussan. Courtesy of the Région Provence-AlpesCôte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Françoise Baussan.

162  Sacred Space The earliest synagogue of Carpentras was probably built sometime during the thirteenth century and was located near the city walls.51 Upon the Jews’ expulsion from the city under Pope John XXII in 1322, the building was destroyed and replaced by a church dedicated to the Virgin Mary.52 When, in 1343–1344, the Jews returned, they moved to the center of the city, which is where the new synagogue was built and where their quarter remained until the Revolution. Throughout this period, the size of the synagogue remained a point of contention between Jews and Christians. Initially, the Jews rented a house from a local notary (c. 14 square meters in size: 4 meters long, 8 meters wide, and 8 meters high). After the lease ended in 1367, the bishop authorized the community to build a new synagogue, provided it did not exceed the previous one in size (Figure 3.12).53 Other than a small men’s area, presumably the size of the present bimah gallery, the lower levels included a women’s section (Figure 3.13), which had an oven and a cabassadou. These underground spaces, designed to increase the usable room without expanding beyond the allocated and authorized surface area, were preserved and integrated into the new synagogue built in the eighteenth century (Figure 3.14). Various documents from the seventeenth century suggest that the fourteenth-century structure was in dire need of repair. Work was not begun, however, until the beginning of 1741, when the lack of space combined with the building’s poor condition led to the decision to rebuild the synagogue completely, a project designed and overseen by engineer and architect Antoine d’Allemand.54 Though it is likely that there were similarities in design and layout between the fourteenth- and eighteenth-century synagogues, as was seemingly the case at Avignon, the refurbished version by far surpassed the earlier in both scale and splendor (15.7 by 8.7 meters). While the luxurious interior decor (Figure 3.15) seemed to be an affair largely left to the Jews, the exterior (Figure 3.12), especially the building’s height and the view from its windows, was a matter of great concern to the Christian authorities.55 Neighboring residents and especially the bishop of Carpentras, JosephDominique (Malachias) d’Inguimbert, noticed that the new structure was taller than the nearby buildings belonging to the city’s Christian population. After repeated measurements, the renovations were interrupted and the walls and roof were lowered substantially. It was not until 1776 that the two large windows in the main prayer hall’s eastern wall (Figure 3.15) could finally be installed.56 Beyond the superimposed prayer sections, the men’s above and the women’s below, other recurrent features of the synagogues in the papal domains of Avignon and the Comtat include the placement of the tebah (teboth, plural, the Sephardic term for ark; Figure 3.15) and the bimah (Figure 3.16) facing each other and placed on opposite sides of the main prayer hall, a bifocal layout familiar from a number of contemporary Sephardic Italian synagogues.57 Following the teachings of the sixteenth-century legal authority Rabbi Moses Isserles, most Ashkenazic synagogues position the bimah at the center of the prayer hall.58 The bimah in the synagogues of Avignon and the Comtat, as in synagogues of the Italian and more generally Sephardic rites, was set up across the hall facing the tebah. This unique placement remained popular, despite the fact that in

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Figure 3.12  Carpentras synagogue façade, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Katharina Galor.

the twelfth century the great Sephardic legal codifier, Maimonides, had pointed out that a central location for the bimah allowed every worshipper gathered in the synagogue to hear easily.59 The tebah and its contents, the Torah scrolls, the holiest feature in the synagogue, visually compete with the bimah.60

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Figure 3.13  Carpentras synagogue basement with remains of former women’s section, France. Photo by Katharina Galor.

As in the prayer room of the Ancona synagogue, the entrance door in Carpentras is located underneath the gallery that supports the bimah. The cross-vaulted ceiling—recently restored with a dark blue paint speckled with little stars, meant to represent the celestial sphere, spans the top of the room (at eight meters above the floor) and connects the two focal points: the tebah in the east, and the bimah in the west. The terrace on the roof was used for Rosh Chodesh (beginning of the month) ceremonies and as a placement of the Sukkah (temporary hut built for the weeklong festival of Sukkoth, also known as the Feast of Tabernacles).61 It may also have served other celebrations such as weddings and bar and bat mitzvoth. A combination of Rococo, Baroque, and neoclassical elements are among the distinct features of the Comtadin synagogue interior. The walls of the lower level of the main prayer hall are covered with wooden panels painted in a pale turquoise, with the exception of the eastern wall. Here, the wooden tebah (Figure 3.15), repaired and repainted in 1923, is set into an elaborate baroque-style wall composition made of gray, pink, and beige faux-marble highlighted by numerous gilded decorative details. Two engaged, black, faux-marble columns with gilded Ionic capitals, hold up a framed pediment with an inscription referencing, like the cartouche above the entrance of the Cavaillon synagogue, the biblical psalm (118:20) reading, “This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter into it.” The two glass oculi and two large arched windows in the same wall, in concert with the numerous chandeliers, animate the contrasts of the painted and sculpted surfaces. While some of the décor

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Figure 3.14  Carpentras synagogue ground floor and first floor plans, eighteenth century. Drawn by Régis Péan.

166  Sacred Space

Figure 3.15  The ark in the eastern wall of the Carpentras synagogue, as repaired and repainted in 1923, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel.

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Figure 3.16  The bimah with canopy on the gallery in the western wall of the Carpentras synagogue, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Synagogue of Carpentras and of Frédéric Pauvarel.

has been retouched and replaced, the two small niches flanking the tebah and placed about two meters above the ground are original to the eighteenth-century refurbishment. The one to the left of the tebah was meant to hold the etrog (citron) and the loulav (palm branch) used during Sukkoth. The other niche to the right held the so-called Chair of Elijah, fashioned in a Louis XVI style. As one of the Comtadin peculiarities, it is known to have served circumcision ceremonies.62 On the west rises the broad, balustraded, wrought iron gallery (9.5 by 6.3 meters), held up by four fluted, Doric-style, red, faux-marble columns (Figure 3.16). The gallery opens toward a room in the back, which may have been part of the earlier fourteenth-century synagogue.63 The bimah is covered by an open canopy of rococo scrolls held up by four thin Tuscan columns, which, according to Carol Herselle Krinsky, echoes the design of Bernini’s canopy above the altar in St. Peter’s Basilica of the Vatican.64 Another element of the architectural trends and tastes common to the region is the elevated position of the bimah. Other than in the Comtat, they also exist in Italy, including, for instance, the Spanish synagogue in Pesaro, or the Scuola Levantina in Venice.65 Beyond the bimah and several seats reserved for the synagogue officials, the gallery also holds three large sevenbranched candelabra, two from the Napoleonic era and one from the Restoration period.66 Like most places of worship, Jewish and Christian, the synagogue was closed during the Revolution. Most of the copper and brass was melted down, and carved

168  Sacred Space woodwork and precious fabrics were plundered, some of which were deposited in a government warehouse. During the Revolution, the synagogue was converted into a Jacobin clubhouse. It was not until 1799 that the building was returned to the town’s Jewish community. Some of the original furnishings were given back, including three surviving seventeenth-century lighting fixtures. A number of renovation projects were carried out between 1885 and 1953, including the construction of a new entrance and the grand staircase, the refurbishing of the façade and the interior woodwork, and finally several repairs of masonry, roof, and water pipes.67 The authorization to build the original synagogue of Cavaillon was issued in 1499.68 Very little is known about this structure other than that it was located in the same place as its successor, and the fact that it included a gallery that was accessed by a spiral staircase within the circular tower in the north (Figure 3.17). We also have the partial remains of the earliest tebah from the sixteenth century, of which only the carved wooden panels have survived (Figures 3.18a and 3.18b).69 Like the other synagogues of the papal domains in southern France, by the mideighteenth century, this building too threatened to collapse and was thus replaced by a completely new structure. This project was overseen and executed by local master masons, father and son, Antoine and Pierre Armelin, between 1772 and 1774 (Figure 3.19). Situated within the city’s center, the building was bordered on the north by the rue Hébraïque. Protruding into the street, the semicircular tower is the only structural component left of the former synagogue, which was reintegrated into the new building (Figure 3.17). Of the two superimposed windows, the lintel of the bottom one has an inscription with the date 1754. The southern wall features the entrance portal, giving direct access to the main prayer hall (Figure 3.20). The door can be reached by the external staircase leading to the balcony running across the entire façade. Other than the wrought iron balustrades of the lower and upper balconies, it is the door and windows that create the gentle rhythm of the southern building face. While in Carpentras the entrance leading into the prayer hall is positioned underneath the gallery with the tebah, in Cavaillon—as originally at Avignon, and likely also in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue—access is from the side (Figure 3.19). More modest in size (8.4 by 7.2 meters) and more delicate in décor, the walls of the Cavaillon synagogue are covered by wooden panels featuring sculpted details, including fruit and flower wreaths, garlands, baskets, shells, and several musical instruments. Painted in pale gray with light blue and golden highlights, the craftsmanship of the rococo style is attributed to Jean-Joseph Charmot, a sculptor from L’Isle-sur-Sorgue. The elegant wrought iron work of the external and internal galleries and balustrades were overseen by local Cavaillon artist, François Isoard (Figure 3.21). The same bifocal layout that defines the main prayer hall at the Carpentras synagogue can be found in Cavaillon. The tebah (Figure 3.22), here too, is in the east, but is placed into a niche that protrudes beyond the external wall. A wooden portico held up by two fluted columns of Corinthian-style frames the paneled and delicately sculpted doors. The elegant work of the balustrade that encloses the space in front of the ark is echoed by the wrought iron of the gallery

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Figure 3.17  Cavaillon synagogue with northern tower integrated into the eighteenth-century building, France. Photo by Katharina Galor.

placed on the opposite, western wall of the building. Here too, two staircases, placed opposite from each other, give access to this upper level space (Figure 3.21). Visible from below, two finely carved seven-branched menorahs made of painted wood frame the bimah table of undulating oval form. Its delicately crafted canopy is held up by four fluted wooden columns, two of them engaged, crowned

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Figure 3.18  Wooden panels of Cavaillon ark, recto (a) and verso (b) Judéo 34, sixteenth century, France. Courtesy of the Patrimoine et Musées-Cavaillon and of Séverine Padiolleau.

by gilt Corinthian capitals. Sculpted curtains painted in light blue hang from the columns, with garlands of roses twisted around them. Seven massif bronze chandeliers, among the few surviving furnishings of the earlier synagogue, were reintegrated into the newly rebuilt structure. A Hebrew inscription on the largest one, hung at the center of the main prayer hall, reads, “Donated by the most distinguished Isaac Corthès Crémieux, in the year 1648.”70 The other luminaries are contemporary or postdate the newly constructed synagogue. These include the two chandeliers on the gallery featuring the name of the donor and its date, reading, “Michael de Bédarride, 1744.”71 Additional remnants of the eighteenth century are the crystal chandelier hanging at some distance in front of the tebah, and the candelabrum decorated with acanthus leaves, the only freestanding lamp supported by a three-footed, volute-shaped base. The other significant furnishing is the miniature Chair of Elijah (Figure 3.23), this one supported on a pedestal made to resemble clouds. The chair is positioned at the southern angle of the main prayer hall (Figure 3.22), above the level of the worshippers when standing. The Hebrew inscription on the back of the chair attributes the donation to “Rabbi Judah, son of rabbi Pinchas, 5535 [1774].”72 Unlike numerous other synagogues and churches in France, which were pillaged, damaged, or destroyed during the French Revolution, the synagogue of

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Figure 3.19  Cavaillon synagogue ground floor (a) and first floor (b) plans, eighteenth century, France. Drawn by Régis Péan.

Cavaillon did not suffer.73 As the town’s Jewish population, however, left soon after they attained their new status as legal citizens with equal rights, the building’s use as a Jewish house of worship came to an end. Various repair and restoration efforts throughout the twentieth century (in 1901, 1922, 1924, 1928, 1930, 1952, 1985, and 1988) assured its proper maintenance, with only minor structural and decorative changes since the eighteenth century. Much has been written on the historical development and the decorative details of the Avignon and Comtadin synagogues. Yet little attention has been given to the unique integration of rituals anchored in biblical and postbiblical traditions (as originally performed in the Tabernacle and Jerusalem temples), with references to the contemporary trends and fashions of the French bourgeoisie and nobility (as visible in the salons of private residences and palaces). There is no doubt that the wealth of archival material, documenting countless legal and financial details and transactions of the various construction, renovation, and reconstruction phases is valuable data that sheds light on the Jewish communities and their social, political, and religious makeup. The written documents furthermore provide an invaluable resource that allows us to reconstruct the relationship of the Jews of Avignon and the Comtat with other Jewish communities in Europe and the Holy Land, as

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Figure 3.20  Cavaillon synagogue façade with lower and upper balconies, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Katharina Galor.

well as with their Christian neighbors, administrators, and overlords. The material evidence complements these texts in numerous ways. Emulating the baroque and rococo interiors of the significantly more privileged population in the royal kingdom of France, for instance, clearly indicates the Jewish community’s desire to integrate into a world from which they were mostly banned. This is not only

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Figure 3.21  Gallery in the western wall of the Cavaillon synagogue, eighteenth century, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-AlpesCôte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel.

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Figure 3.22  The ark in the eastern wall of the Cavaillon synagogue surrounded by wrought iron balustrade, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel.

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Figure 3.23  Chair of Elijah, Cavaillon synagogue, 1774, France. Photo by Katharina Galor.

evident in the décor chosen for the synagogues. It is apparent in the people’s literary choices, their cultural preferences, and even their way of dressing; all specifically in the eighteenth century, a period that is associated with the community’s enhanced social, professional, and economic capital. At the same time, however, their loyalty to long-established traditions of Jewish worship, with countless references to the ancient Israelite and Jewish sanctuaries, seems uncompromised. As are most ancient and medieval synagogues, the synagogues of Carpentras and Cavaillon—and likely the ones that existed prior to the revolution in L’Islesur-Sorgue and at Avignon—are oriented toward the east, roughly the direction of Jerusalem. This custom is rooted in the biblical narrative of Solomon’s prayer, which should be directed toward the city [Jerusalem] he has chosen and the temple [on Mount Moriah] that he built (I Kings 8:33, 44, 48; II Chronicles 6:34). Another biblical passage relates that in the upper chamber of the house, where Daniel prayed three times a day, the windows were opened toward Jerusalem (Daniel 6:10). The ruling laid down in the Mishnah (Berakhot 4:5) and elaborated on in the Talmud, is that if people pray in the diaspora, they shall turn toward Eretz Israel; in Eretz Israel, toward Jerusalem; in Jerusalem, toward the Temple; and in the Temple, toward the Holy of Holies. Thus, all Jews direct their prayers toward one place (B. Berakhot 30a; Y. Berakhot 4:5 8b– c; T. Berakhot 3:16). Beyond indicating the direction of prayer, the tebah, arguably the most important element in any synagogue, contains the Torah scrolls. Structurally, it alludes to the tablets of the law Moses received from God, which were then kept in the Ark of the Covenant and

176  Sacred Space carried through the desert along with the movable Tabernacle (Exodus 25:10–22). The temples in Jerusalem—the First and Second Temples—were built to provide a permanent home for the ark. Yet the temple’s Holy of Holies, originally intended to house the ark, presumably remained empty after Solomon’s temple was pillaged and destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE.74 The arks or teboth of the Carpentras and the Cavaillon synagogues (Figure 3.15 and Figure 3.22), built like countless other bifocal Jewish houses of worship found in southern Europe in general and in Italy more specifically, occupy a narrow, rectangular niche with a so-called aedicula frame.75 Most commonly featuring a four-column front, in the surviving Comtat synagogues, the pediment is supported by only two columns. Clearly inspired by other synagogues that incorporate this popular Renaissance motif, the aediculae here, as in all synagogues, reference the original Jerusalem temple façades, flanked by the columns named Boaz and Jachin (Jeremiah 52:17, 52:21–22; I Kings 7:13–22, 41–42, II Kings 25:13). Other elements that invoke the Tabernacle and Jerusalem Temples are the menorah, clearly the most ubiquitous symbol of Judaism persistently from the Roman period onward, within synagogues and beyond.76 Whereas the biblical description of the Tabernacle clearly references a seven-branched candelabrum, there is some debate around the appearance of the lampstands in Solomon’s temple.77 Yet by the time of King Herod’s temple at the latest, the seven-branched menorah, as featured in all ancient and late antique synagogues, and in Jewish art from the Middle Ages through the present, can be understood much like the ark itself: a hybrid, alluding at once to the desert Tabernacle and the Jewish temples in Jerusalem. While the references to ancient biblical sources and Talmudic traditions can be seen as contrasting the contemporary citations of decorative styles of Louis XIV and Louis XV, their juxtaposition may actually be understood as the successful integration of hierarchical societal structures that are based on royal ideologies—both within the context of the Israelite and Herodian kingdoms on the one hand and the kingdoms of the Ancien Régime on the other. The cultic rituals of the ancient Israelite and Jewish sanctuaries were ultimately not that incompatible with the societal rituals practiced by the French middle and upper-middle classes, replicating the tastes of the prerevolutionary aristocracy and royalty. Gendered Space and Worship René Moulinas describes the superimposed levels of the synagogues in the four carrières as their most unusual characteristic, with the “more beautiful, larger, and better illuminated hall always being reserved for the men, whereas the women were relegated to the inferior level, which was lower, darker, and at times almost giving the impression of being a cave.”78 The clear spatial hierarchy seems to affirm the patriarchal structure of Jewish society. The question that follows, then, is whether the spatial segregation between women and men as prevalent in the synagogues of Avignon and the Comtat is really all that unusual. Were there other synagogues that accommodated women differently? And how do these customs of separation between women and men relate to earlier traditions in Israelite and Jewish

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Figure 3.24  Northern cross section of Capernaum synagogue, Kohl and Watzinger, Antike Synagogen in Galilaea, Tafel IV, 1916. Public Domain. https://synagogues​ .kinneret​.ac​.il​/synagogues​/capernaum/.

sanctuaries? Did the structural hierarchy in these synagogues reflect Jewish women’s general lack of agency as they engaged biblical and post-biblical legacies? The question of women’s presence in the synagogue is one that has been long debated among scholars of Judaism. Until the 1950s, most researchers assumed that women were restricted to physically demarcated sections separate from men.79 This assumption was strongly influenced by the German archaeologist team Kohl and Watzinger’s conclusion that ancient synagogues in Palestine were equipped with women’s galleries—based on their hypothetical reconstruction of the Capernaum synagogue (Figure. 3.24).80 While their conjectural reconstruction was referenced as an authoritative example by at least two generations of archaeologists, late nineteenth-century scholars of the Talmud had already begun questioning the existence of a separate women’s section in the synagogue. The first of these scholars was the Hungarian rabbi Leopold Löw, who highlighted a number of Talmudic accounts that proved, he asserted, women’s participation in synagogue services. Moreover, he analyzed a number of passages that suggested that there was no women’s section in the ancient synagogue.81 While German rabbi and scholar Ismar Elbogen assumed that the balconies in the Galilean synagogues surveyed by the archaeologist team of Kohl and Watzinger were likely used for women—though admitting there was no certainty about it—he examined some of the same texts as Löw to show that women were indeed present in ancient synagogues. He did, however, conclude, that women and men did not sit together and that they presumably sat in different rows.82 German art historian Richard Krautheimer similarly claimed

178  Sacred Space that ancient synagogues did not have a strict separation of the sexes, and that clear spatial dividers were only introduced over time, examining the subject specifically in the context of medieval synagogue architecture.83 Israeli architect Asher Hiram, who focused primarily on the archaeological evidence, concluded that there were no galleries in ancient houses of worship. He did, however, suggest that women might have sat in a separate side room.84 More systematically devoted to bringing texts and archaeological sources into dialogue, historian Shmuel Safrai also called into question the existence of a separate women’s gallery in ancient synagogues. While he believed that some did have galleries, he rejected the view that they were used for women and deduced that there was no evidence whatsoever, either in the literary or in the material record, that women were spatially segregated.85 While these scholars did consider the question of women’s presence in ancient synagogues, Bernadette Brooten was the first to bring the issue into central focus. Her pathbreaking study, Women Leaders in the Ancient Synagogue: Inscriptional Evidence and Background Issues, provided the first systematic exploration of Talmudic literature and contemporary archaeological evidence, which by then consisted of an important corpus of architectural remains and excavation reports.86 To complement and to some extent challenge these testimonies, Brooten examined inscriptions from synagogues and burial sites. According to her, the epigraphic data established not only that women played important roles in synagogue worship, but also that there was no evidence that they did so in a separate space. Additionally, while some scholars have tried to argue that titles, such as “head of the synagogue,” “leader,” “elder,” or “mother of the synagogue,” were merely honorific in nature, Brooten has convinced most of her colleagues that they should be understood as reflecting women’s actual functions and thus social standing.87 Principally in agreement with Brooten, in that “women occupied a distinguished position in the synagogue and certainly participated in its founding and administration,” Hannah Safrai has provided some added nuances that differentiate women from their male counterparts with regard to worship. In her study on women in the ancient synagogue, she stresses, Prayer [based on the biblical text] is one of the commandments to which women are obliged. Moreover, as recorded in the Babylonian Talmud (Berakhot 31a– b) the tradition of public prayer proudly reaffirms and emphasizes that the prayer of a woman, Hannah, is the model for the order of Jewish prayer. Yet, she also states, “[W]e have no hard evidence for women as Torah readers, prayer leaders, or preachers.”88 While there is no doubt that Brooten’s work has shaped much of the way women are studied in the context of ancient Judaism, their unequivocal inclusion in public worship has once more been called into question.89 Chad Spigel thus rejects the claim that ancient synagogue worship would have fallen under a category of “normative Judaism” controlled by rabbinic authorities, and argues instead that, “[R]abbinic influence and control over synagogue worship was minimal prior to the medieval period.” He is puzzled that most scholars today have recognized that ancient synagogues and Jewish communities in their attitudes toward worship

Sacred Space  179 were extremely diverse, but insist at the same time that the question of seating was solved uniformly.90 His literary analysis of passages in Philo and of rabbinic and early Christian sources suggests that, like the inconsistent solution for the seating arrangements for women and men in churches, so the situation in ancient synagogues regarding seating arrangements was “exuberantly diverse.” In other words, in some synagogues, women sat in separate areas from men, in others they sat together. Furthermore, the lack of archaeological traces of separate seating areas, so he argues, can be easily explained by the use of spatial partitions that would not have survived, such as galleries made out of wood that could be converted or taken down, or room dividers made of wood, curtains, or hanging carpets.91 Spigel explores the Talmudic literature on women in the synagogue and cites the rabbinic texts that relate to questions of gender in the Jerusalem sanctuary. It is not uncommon to integrate a discussion of gender in ancient and even later synagogues with the evidence for the presence (or lack thereof) of women in the Tabernacle and the Jerusalem temples. After all, the Talmudic rabbis, as Shaye Cohen has demonstrated, established the Temple as the model for divine worship.92 And thus, throughout the centuries following the destruction of the Herodian Temple in 70 CE, synagogue ritual practice and the physical design of synagogues were often based on what was known about the Temple. The tendency among scholars is thus to evaluate gender norms in synagogues in light of earlier traditions, mostly as manifest in the texts. Susan Grossman, for instance, traces the involvement of Jewish women in rituals back to the earliest biblical times and shows their participation in sacrifices and festivities both at the Tabernacle (I Samuel 2:19, I Sam. 1:21–25) and in the preHerodian First and Second Temples (Nehemiah 8:2–3, 10:1–30, 12:43).93 The first references to an area that is linked explicitly to women can be found in the Mishnah (Middot 2:5–6) and in Josephus (Wars V.v.2). These texts describe the so-called Women’s Court, or ezrat nashim, of the Herodian Temple (Figure 3.25).

Figure 3.25  Plan and section of the Herodian Temple, Jerusalem, featuring the Women’s Court. Drawing by Gal M. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/ wiki​/File​:Temple​_sketch2​.png.

180  Sacred Space Rather than being segregated from men, however, the designation of such a court merely implied that women were not given access to other areas of the Temple beyond the court. In other words, women and men mingled in the Women’s Court. It was only the rabbis of the Talmud who later specified that once a year, during the Water-Drawing Festival (Shimhat beit ha-Sho’evah), women were separated from men. And in this regard, both Talmuds (B. Sukkah 51b–52a, Y. Sukkah 55b) understand the building of a balcony in the Women’s Court as a way to accommodate this segregation. This solution was meant as a desirable method to overcome the “evil inclination,” which from there onward was understood as the key reason to keep women out of men’s sight in synagogues.94 Not unlike the medieval miqva’ot of Ashkenaz, which were mostly defined by knowledge from ancient texts, rather than the actual installations in Palestine, so were the synagogues of the Middle Ages inspired by rabbinic discussions on the sancta, rather than the actual remains of former sanctuaries or synagogues. Both Emily Taitz and Elisheva Baumgarten study the different views of the rabbis of the Middle Ages, who frequently mention women’s participation in home and synagogue prayer.95 But beyond their mere presence in the synagogue—not to mention their contributions to the upkeep of the place and their financial support—we learn about their active participation in the service. Elisheva Cohen-Harris writes about a line of well-educated women who were the daughters and wives of learned rabbis, some of whom served as prayer leaders (firzogerins), possibly as early as the thirteenth century.96 We also know of a separate women’s literature of supplicatory prayers (tkhines), which explicitly address women’s needs and concerns. Mostly written by women around the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, some likely by prayer leaders, these texts were clearly meant for women.97 But how does the visual and material cultural evidence on women’s position in the medieval synagogue inform what we know from the textual evidence? How did women’s status in worship translate into spatial notions? Did women and men mingle, or were they segregated? And if so, was there a clear spatial hierarchy? Cohen-Harris, for instance, purports that, as in ancient and late antique synagogues, in most synagogues of central and east central Europe between 1200 and 1600 there was more than one way of physically accommodating women.98 In some towns from the late twelfth through the end of the thirteenth century, we know of separate rooms or buildings destined exclusively for women, as, for instance, in Worms (1213), Cologne (1281), and Nuremberg (1499). For some of these distinct women’s spaces, we also learn about separate prayer services. A number of surviving synagogues, however, mostly from the late fourteenth through the end of the sixteenth century, such as at Regensburg, Rufach, Erfurt, Miltenberg, and Bamberg, lack evidence of distinct women’s sections. Various explanations have been proposed for the absence of any signs of spatial segregation. Either women and men sat together, or there may have been temporary mehitzoth (mehitzah in singular, a partition used to separate women from men).99 Most likely, both solutions were considered feasible and would have been in practice in different communities and regions at the same time. While mehitzoth, if made of wood or other organic materials, would not have left any visible traces, a number of illustrations

Sacred Space  181 of ancient synagogue interiors document a number of solutions. A custommade book from the late fifteenth century, for instance, the so-called Rituale Hungarico-Judaicum, shows both women and men participating in what appears to be the same synagogue service.100 Two early sixteenth-century woodcuts attributed to Johannes Pfefferkorn, on the other hand, seem to feature a moveable or temporary mehitzah, one in his Buechijn der Judenbeicht, and the other in Libellus de Judaica Confessione sive Sabbate.101 An eighteenth-century drawing illustrating a wedding ceremony in the courtyard of the Fürth Synagogue indicates both women and men were present during the ceremony.102 It is likely that for those buildings where women and men were segregated within the building, joint celebrations on the occasion of weddings, the Days of Awe, and other holidays, moving the service outdoors would have allowed for the community to be together. While all of these solutions indicate that women—whether in the same room, alongside men, or separated either by means of a mehitza or by the wall of an adjacent room or building—congregated on the same level as men, some architectural solutions did call for separating the sexes on distinct levels. The Prague Altneuschul, as in numerous other synagogues from the fourteenth century onward, features a women’s annex elevated above the men’s floor level. Over time, this arrangement evolved into stricter spatial segregation, where the women’s area occupied a completely separate part of the structure. These later solutions either provided women an opportunity to conduct their own prayer services or allowed women to follow the men’s services, sometimes while reciting their prayers with assistance from a prayer leader.103 It was only toward the end of the Middle Ages—that is, in most parts of Europe— that gender norms regarding worship in synagogues began to shift considerably. With the Enlightenment and the onset of the Reform movement, the firzogerin and the mehitzah began to disappear. The traditional liturgy now increasingly merged women’s and men’s voices. But this partial emancipation also appears to have marked the disappearance of women’s poetry, their unique expressions of themselves, and their creativity. By the eighteenth century at the latest, women’s galleries in central and eastern Europe began to show an architectural solution to both integrate women into the services and to maintain, at the same time, a gendered spatial hierarchy. This shift in architecture was likely influenced by contemporary galleries introduced in synagogues of the Islamic world as well as in church architecture, especially Protestant houses of worship.104 The first known galleries in Europe that overlooked the men’s prayer hall include the 1639 Sephardic synagogue of Amsterdam (Figure 3.26). Other synagogues, including the Creenchurch Lane synagogue in London, and the Spanish and German synagogues of Venice (Figure 3.27), soon followed the example. Most among these early galleries were integrated into synagogues that belonged to the Sephardic communities of central Europe.105 While the majority of European synagogues underwent significant architectural changes following the end of the Middle Ages, especially with regard to how they increasingly integrated women within the main prayer hall, at Avignon and

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Figure 3.26  Interior of the Portuguese Synagogue, Amsterdam in 1695 by Romeyn de Hoogh. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Interieur​ _van​_de​_Portugese​_Synagoge​_te​_Amsterdam,​_ca.​_1695​_Tempel​_der​_Joden​ _in​_Amsteldam​_Templo​_o​_Sinagoga​_de​_los​_Judias​_en​_Amsteldam_(titel_ op_object),​_RP​-P​-AO​-24​-29​.jpg.

in the Comtat Venaissin, the unique hierarchical solution—with men on the upper level, women on the lower—likely remained in place until the time of the French Revolution in 1789. The first scholarly discussion examining the gendered space in these synagogues goes back to the French rabbi Isidore Loeb, who in 1886 wrote: She [the synagogue] is unique to the Comtat, and possibly to Italy, by way of various characteristics that are hardly known elsewhere. Firstly, there is a vast basement level, poorly lit, which once accommodated the women. They were relegated to this dark and cold place, because the men’s synagogue, located on the first floor, was too small to contain them. They could not follow the men’s service. They were given a special officiant, called the rabbi of the Jewesses, who recited the prayers for them, most likely in Provençal. A small square opening in the ceiling, closed off by a grille, opened in the floor of the men’s synagogue, just in front of the ark that contained the scrolls of the law. It was meant to allow the women to see the scrolls of the law when

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Figure 3.27  Women’s gallery, German synagogue, Venice, 1528. Photo by Markhole. Public Domain. https://en​.wikipedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Great​_German​_Synagogue,​ _women​%27s​_gallery​.jpg.

taken out of the ark during the public reading of the Pentateuque. Today, the lower synagogue has been abandoned, and the women are present during the services in galleries that are located at two or three meters above the ground of the men’s synagogue as well as in rooms or tribunes located in the corners of this synagogue.106 Several earlier references document that this spatial arrangement had been in place for some time, but it evidently surprised, if not shocked, an external observer. Thomas Platter, a Swiss humanist scholar and writer, when visiting the synagogue of Avignon in 1599, commented on the most unpleasant conditions of the lower women’s level: They led us to their temple. It was underground, a real cave, light entering through an opening coming from a room above. There is a blind rabbi who preaches to the women in poor Hebrew, since the Jewish dialect at Avignon is a mix of Languedoc words. In the upper room, men are preached to in good Hebrew; there it’s bright, and the Holy of Holies, accessible exclusively to the high priest, is enclosed by a fence, beyond which only the high priest has access.107

184  Sacred Space In the late eighteenth century, after the renovations of the new synagogue were completed, Vandebrande, a traveler from Bordeaux, wrote about the same synagogue and remarked: “[T]he women … don’t mingle with the men. Their underground place, which appears like a jail, merely connects with the Jews via a wooden grille, which allows for some light to enter.” When asked about the reason for these strict measures of segregation, he was told that “it was equally impossible for congregants of both sexes to sufficiently focus on the prayers, if they were in each other’s company.”108 In 1710, two Benedict friars, passing through Carpentras, visited the synagogue and documented a similar state of affairs: [T]he synagogue is small, with two levels. The men are in the upper level and the women in the lower. They keep the Law in a tabernacle in the back of the second level, hidden behind a curtain. In front of it, is a lamp that is always lit, and there is a tribune where the rabbi reads the Law to those assembled … In front of the balustrade, there is a small grille, through which the rabbi shows the Law to the women, as these thrust themselves forward.109 While less explicit with regard to the architectural design, several references to the synagogue of L’Isle-sur-Sorgue seem to establish that the unusual gender segregation as observed at Avignon and in Carpentras, was indeed the norm for this region. In 1676, mason François Brun inspected the synagogue of L’Isle-sur-Sorgue and described the poor condition of the floor that separated the women’s école from the men’s. Repairs to be carried out by two brothers, Louis and Barthélémy Jacotet, described in an invoice from 1691, indicate the construction of a staircase leading to the école “which at the bottom aligned with the door jamb defining the women’s entrance into their space.”110 In 1732, major renovations were carried out in the same synagogue by a certain mason, F. Rogier. We learn that he built a new door “for the Jewish women to facilitate their entry into their lower école positioned below the one reserved for the men.”111 A further invoice for a repair carried out by architect Esprit Brun, dated to 1734, concerns the construction of a terrace, a balustrade, as well as “a door used as an entrance for the Jewish women to access their lower école located underneath the men’s.”112 Seemingly, the renovations carried out in 1759 did little to improve the conditions of the space reserved for the women, as an invoice outlines the construction of five windows installed within the main prayer hall featuring five to six panels across the width and 12 in height for each, as opposed to only two small windows for the women’s école.113 Equally evocative of the peculiar spatial distribution are several documents related to the synagogue of Cavaillon. An invoice from 1772 mentions the “building from scratch [of] the oven of the said synagogue within the women’s école.”114 Another notarized document from 1785 is even more precise with regard to the layout of the building. It concerns the relinquishing of a seat within “the women’s synagogue,” which made up one-fourth of a bench located “at the very end of the fourth row of benches located opposite the place of the press, with only a small passage between, where one prepares the unleavened bread.”115

Sacred Space  185 According to René Moulinas, this unique solution of segregation within the synagogue had a long local tradition. He traced the two-story building design—with one level reserved for men superimposed on another level for women—to medieval times, a tradition that was known in other parts of Provence. Moulinas refers to a sales agreement dated to January 31, 1452, which appears to be a membership subscription for synagogue seats, mentioning the interior layout of the structure: “three seats … within the école of the Jews in Arles, that is, two in the upper men’s level, and one in the lower one.”116 Despite this long-established and uniformly implemented building tradition, we know that as of the eighteenth century, some members of the Jewish community had already voiced concerns about the poor conditions of the space designated for the female members of the congregation. At Avignon, some male members of the Jewish community made an official request submitted to the inquisitor who was supposed to authorize various additional building changes not included in the original reconstruction proposal from December 12, 1765. They asked to have the women’s section moved to the same level as the men’s, specifying that “their women [should] be enabled to participate in the synagogue events in some space allocated to them above their wedding hall, by allowing them to install high above on their balconies located toward the back a grille which was similar to the one currently installed in the floor of their synagogue.”117 Despite the fact that the inquisitor authorized the request on December 16, 1766, the change was ultimately not implemented. Other members of the Jewish community of Avignon—deeply attached to the way ancient texts regarding prayer and worship were understood—responded to the request for change with outrage. A notarized document dated May 1, 1767, and signed by Salomon Delpuget, Michaël Haïn of Saint Paul, and Ménassé of Béziers, states that: to our great surprise, it has come to our attention that some baylons and some other Jewish individuals from the same carrière suggested to let the women sit high up in their écoles and to let those who wish to come down give in to their desire, which would be entirely against common tradition as practiced by Jews since times indefinite, within this very carrière as much as in the other carrières of the Comtat … to prevent that women would be given any other place than the one presently allocated to them, which should not cause us to spare any effort that can be made to embellish their quarters and to provide them with any sort of essential and appropriate amenity.118 Of the four synagogues, only the one in Cavaillon preserved the original spatial arrangement of the men’s synagogue on top and the women’s synagogue below to this day (Figure 3.7). The L’Isle-sur-Sorgue synagogue was destroyed in 1856 and never rebuilt.119 Following the Revolution, the synagogue of Carpentras was reinstated for service.120 But at that point, the women were moved to the same prayer hall on a level identical to the men’s, establishing an ezrat nashim (Figure 3.28),

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Figure 3.28  Carpentras synagogue with women’s sections in north wall, the gallery on top and the red arches, covered by mashrabiyas below nineteenth century, France. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Frédéric Pauvarel.

where they would sit behind the arched openings, covered by mashrabiyas (carved wooden latticework). These prevented the men from seeing the women but allowed the latter to follow the service.121 During the second half of the nineteenth century, the women moved temporarily to the galleries above the arched openings.122 Although the Avignon synagogue, other than its furnishing, survived the Revolution, the building was ultimately destroyed by a fire in 1845, which erupted within the former women’s prayer room. A new structure was designed by the city’s architect, Joseph-Auguste Joffroy, and replaced the former one in the same location. Completed in 1848, this new building was designed in a neoclassical style, with its western façade accentuated by two identical portals (Figure 3.11). Crowned by triangular pediments, the openings were flanked by fluted pilasters with Ionic capitals. The northern entrance was used by women, the southern one by men, each of which led to separate prayer areas. The men, as in most contemporary European synagogues, have since prayed on the ground floor, and the women further up in galleries overlooking the men’s area (Figure 3.29).123 There is no doubt that the gendered spatial hierarchy in the synagogues of Avignon and the Comtat prior to the Revolution discriminated against women in a more extreme manner than in any other known context of Jewish worship. Despite concerns voiced by some male community members regarding the poor conditions of the female congregants, their written request to improve their space within the synagogue, the decision to stay true to the community’s local architectural tradition seemed to have overruled the complaints. This building tradition, in their minds, was more truthful to the biblical and Talmudic legacy, but in reality, as this survey

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Figure 3.29  Avignon synagogue built in the neoclassical style, with lower men’s area and upper women’s gallery, nineteenth century, France. Photo by Françoise Baussan. Courtesy of the Région Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur – Inventaire général and of Françoise Baussan.

188  Sacred Space exposed, had not one way of honoring a “normative” solution for women’s integration into public worship. Countless traditions have seemingly existed throughout the history of Israelite and Jewish worship. And yet I would argue that the lack of gender equality within the carrières’ most important public structures does not necessarily imply that women lacked agency. It clearly meant that they were deprived of the opportunity—or released from the obligation—to participate regularly in study and prayer, to fulfill their communal and religious duties. But it also signified that gendered roles were rigidly divided between the women and men of these communities. It is likely that women rarely participated in regular daily or even weekly services, and that for the most important gatherings, such as for the high holidays, weddings, and britot milah (brit milah, singular, meaning circumcision ceremonies), alternative spatial arrangements were found, either allowing women and children to join the men in the main prayer hall, or to shift these events of joint celebration to exterior spaces, including terraces or courtyards. While we have no iconographic evidence for the papal communities in southern France, illustrations of contemporary synagogues from other parts of Europe, seem to support that women were not segregated from men at all times. A wedding ceremony including a mixed group of men and women standing outside the Altshul from 1724 illustrates this clearly (Figure 3.30). Further testimonies implying that women were not consistently discriminated against within all domains of Jewish worship have survived. Compared to other Jewish

Figure 3.30  Wedding ceremony next to the Altshul from Paul Christian Kirchner's Jüdisches Ceremoniel, Nuremberg, 1724. Public Domain. https://fr​.m​.wikipedia​.org​/wiki​ /Fichier​:Wedding​_ceremony,​_1724,​_from​_Juedisches​_Ceremoniel​.jpg.

Sacred Space  189 communities, these findings may even suggest that the Jewish women of the papal domains at Avignon and in the Comtat played dominant roles in ways that gave them great visibility and agency, specifically in comparison to other contemporary contexts of Jewish life. One indicator is the so-called Roth Manuscript 32, a fourteenth- or fifteenth-century siddur (siddurim, plural, the Hebrew word for prayer book) featuring the daily prayers translated into Shuadit, or Judeo-Provençal, the language spoken by the Jews of southern France.124 Though close to the language spoken by non-Jews in the same region, the text is written in the Hebrew alphabet. The title page identifies the content and the context, suggesting that it was a wedding gift to a sister. It features the Hebrew words, ahoti at hayiy le-alfey revavah (my sister, be the mother of thousands of ten thousands), referencing the biblical blessing to Rebecca (Genesis 24:60). While many translations of siddurim made explicitly for women are known, there is one passage that makes this particular one unique. It includes an unprecedented variation of three blessings of the Birkot ha-Shachar (morning blessings), reading, “Blessed art Thou Lord our God king of eternity who did not make me a slave (feminine). Blessed art Thou who did not make me a Gentile (feminine). Blessed art Thou who made me a woman.”125 Only one other siddur with similar wording has survived from this era. It was written in 1480 by Abraham ben Mordechai Farissol, a scribe originally from Provence. This one too, was no doubt intended for a woman of the Norsa family from Mantua, Farissol’s host family while in Italy (Figure 3.31). Here, the last of the three morning blessings concludes with the words, “Blessed art Thou who made me a woman and not a man.”126 Around the same time, another version of the same blessing emerged, this one gender-neutral, which, however, continued to be used beyond its earliest known context. First cited by the fourteenth-century Spanish liturgical authority, Rabbi David Abudraham, it reads, “who has created me according to his will.”127 The significance of both versions cannot be appreciated without pointing out the standard formula of this morning prayer recited by men, as it first emerged in antiquity and as it has survived to the present in Orthodox Judaism. Shaye Cohen refers to the phrase that concludes men’s morning prayers with the words, “Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, who has not made me a woman,” as “the bestknown and most offensive expression of the rabbinic othering of women.”128 Another indicator of female agency, although postdating the Revolution and thus outside the chronological focus of this study, are two bat mitzvah certificates from the nineteenth century attesting to the girls’ religious maturity. Both girls were members of the Carpentras community and seemingly related to each other. According to the preserved documents, Rosalba Lunel celebrated her twelfth birthday in 1850, and Noémie Lunel in 1865. Anchored in a Mishnaic custom (M. Niddah 5:6), Maimonides comments on this important moment in a girl’s life (Mishneh Torah Hilchot Ishut 2:1–2) when she transitions from a ktanah (minor) to a naarah (maiden) at age 12 and after another 6 months to a bogeret (mature woman). While this may be the earliest surviving bat mitzvah certificate, we know that this custom also emerged in other contemporary communities in Europe.129 Noémie Lunel’s certificate (Figure 3.32) includes a depiction suggestive of the actual occasion and how it was apparently celebrated within the synagogue. The

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Figure 3.31  Mahzor, women’s prayer book written in 1471 by Abraham ben Mordecai Farissol, MS 8255, Fol. 5v°. Public Domain. https://fr​.m​.wikipedia​.org​/wiki​/ Fichier​:Abraham​_ben​_Mordecai​_Farissol​_Mahzor​_1471​.jpg.

synagogue ark—not identical but close enough to the general design of the actual Carpentras tebah—serves as background. The girl, or “maiden,” standing at the center is facing the ark with only her back visible, an indication that rather than being a personalized image, it was used as a template for multiple certificates. Flanking the maiden are two rows of six females each, all in identical outfits, including long dresses and semitransparent veils covering their hair and faces. Each of them is holding a book and reading from it, suggesting that by this time most Jewish women were literate. They are clearly participating in a religious ceremony. The text underneath the illustration identifying the bat mitzvah is in French and reads: “The religious initiation of Miss Noémie

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Figure 3.32  Certificate of accession to the religious majority for Noémie Lunel, Carpentras, 1865. Photo by Frédéric Pauvarel. Courtesy of the Région Provence-AlpesCôte d’Azur – Inventaire général, of the Synagogue of Carpentras, and of Frédéric Pauvarel.

192  Sacred Space Lunel was celebrated at the Israelite Temple of Marseille Carpentras on September 12, 1865.”130 It is signed by Chief Rabbi Benjamin Mossée. While a critical reading of the biblical and rabbinic texts does not allow us to discern standard or “normative” female and male performances of public piety, my analysis of architectural, decorative, and iconographic sources undoubtedly complicates the assumption of an unequivocal patriarchal authority. Women Hidden or Visible? We know that whereas women were excused from timebound commandments, including, for instance, the reciting of the Shema (the Jewish prayer that serves as a centerpiece of the morning and evening prayer services), they were not exempt from the obligation to pray. So much is clearly stated in the Talmud and later recognized and reiterated by both Rashi (d. 1105) and his grandson Rabbeinu Jacob Tam (d. 1172).131 This obligation does not, however, answer my query about how women worshipped in public spaces at Avignon and in the Comtadin communities. It does not establish that the unusual spatial segregation that maintained itself as one of the more noted characteristics of their synagogues meant that Jewish women simply gave in to the patriarchal strictures. It only suggests that women, unlike men, prayed either in private, mostly at home, or if at the synagogue, hidden or protected from the male gaze. This appears to have happened within the most unappealing and unpleasant area within the synagogue. I would note, however, that the most negative descriptions of the scandalous conditions of the women’s area are all attributed to non-Jews, who appear rather tendentious with regard to other aspects of Jewish life and traditions. Furthermore, once the ezrat nashim was moved to the level of or above the men’s section, little was done to maintain or improve the general aspect of the lower women’s area. The upper levels of the synagogue, instead, were regularly kept up, embellished, and upgraded, thus likely contributing to a much starker contrast than before the Revolution. But even if the differences between the women’s and the men’s sections seem exaggerated, the clear spatial hierarchy was noticeable. Thus, within the papal synagogue, women were visibly coerced into a position of invisibility and inferiority, a place they appear to have been kept in throughout the Middle Ages and up until the Revolution. Women’s marginal place within the town’s main public building clearly reflects other aspects of gendered societal norms. The community’s rabbis, who in their function as schoolmasters instructed boys, did not teach girls. Mostly illiterate, likely not only in Hebrew, but also in other languages commonly spoken in the region—including Latin, French, Italian, and Provençal—the girls’ main link with the language of their ancestors was seemingly reduced to their possession of matutines. These were small rolls of parchment inscribed with Hebrew prayers, usually kept in a silver container.132 While these precious objects hardly enhanced women’s reading and writing skills, they did both literally encapsulate and transmit the value that the scriptures held within Jewish society. Though we have no exact numbers for literacy rates among Jews within the papal territories of southern France between the Middle Ages and the Revolution, we know that education and reading and writing skills were mostly reserved for boys. Throughout this time span, education, preparation for adulthood, and literacy among both Jewish

Sacred Space  193 and Christian women, were often remarkably similar.133 Despite the centrality of the scriptures, in both synagogue and church, as well as the similarly limited literacy for women of both religions, the development of gendered space over time within the two houses of worship is not identical. While there seems to be a lack of a coherent chronological evolution of women’s segregation in both synagogue and church, and despite the fact that in both histories there seem to have been various regional trends that coexisted, in pre-Revolution France the spatial order in churches was less hierarchical than in synagogues. Surprisingly though, as Jewish women achieved a certain spatial upgrade following the Revolution, the segregation in churches between women and men—in spite of the desired stipulation in the Council of Trent in 1564—did not see significant results before the end of the eighteenth century.134 Interestingly, Jewish women’s role in engaging the ancient scriptures, though not always written in the original Hebrew alphabet or language, transpired in a different context. As the synagogues of the arbah kehilot were renovated or rebuilt— maintaining the strict hierarchical segregation between women and men—the carrières’ main square, known as the Tricadou, invited the entire community to participate together in the perpetuation of a biblical tradition. The Book of Esther, traditionally read on the festival of Purim, has inspired a play originally written in the late seventeenth century by Rabbi Mardochée Astruc from L’Isle-sur-Sorgue. It was later revised and published by Rabbi Jacob de Lunel of Carpentras in 1774, in an inexpensive edition, so that most members of the community could afford it. It was then annotated and edited by Ernest Sabatier and published in Nimes in 1877, in the only complete version that has survived.135 This 1877 version, composed of five acts and 1600 verses, was given the new title of Tragédie de la Reine Esther (Tragedy of Queen Esther)—though according to Sabatier, the earliest version was known as Lou Jo de Haman (The Game of Haman). The play, similar in style to medieval mysteries, was more comic than tragic.136 It was staged throughout the eighteenth century, not only in Carpentras, but in all four carrières, and was considered an integral part of the Purim celebrations. While the original Esther story was read in Hebrew within the synagogue, thus excluding all those who could not read or understand, the outdoor presentation on the Tricadou was performed in JudeoProvençal, the language spoken and understood by women, men, and children. According to Marianne Calmann: [T]his was the one occasion of the year when the community could openly celebrate a victory obtained by Jews over their oppressors, and this was one of the main reasons for the popularity of the play. … Plays like Esther channeled Jewish feelings safely away from the present yet allowed them to rejoice at the overthrow of a tyrant who sought to oppress the Jews.137 And indeed, once Jews became French citizens and started to leave the carrières, the play was no longer performed. It was not until 1926 that Armand Lunel used the text as the basis of an opera libretto for which his friend Darius Milhaud composed the music. Esther de Carpentras premiered at the Opéra Comique of Paris in 1938.138 Widely known in the Judeo-Christian world, and having inspired numerous poems, paintings, and other plays, the biblical story is about a Jewish woman, Esther, who

194  Sacred Space becomes Queen of Persia after Vashti, the king’s first wife, refuses to parade before her drunk husband, King Ahashverosh, and his subjects. Following her uncle Mordechai’s advice, Esther at first does not reveal her Jewish identity to the king. But when the king’s advisor, Haman, seeks to have all the Jews killed, she risks her life as she appears before her husband without being summoned. In place of killing the Jewish people, Ahashverosh ends up hanging Haman.139 No doubt Calmann’s reading of the underlying reasons for the Provençal’s play success is valid. The Jews’ experience of oppression under papal rule resonated with the narrative of persecution the Jews in Persia suffered. Esther as a Jewish savior, after all, was celebrated in other contemporary Jewish communities living in exile, and inspired similar playful adaptations of the biblical story, reintegrating the narrative into different geopolitical contexts.140 Equally interesting, though, and more relevant to engaging women’s compliance with agency, are the Tragédie de la Reine Esther’s implications for the apparent changes of gender norms in Avignon and the Comtadin communities under papal rule. Unlike the synagogues, which hardly adjusted to the global European trend of women’s improving status in society—transitioning from near-complete subordination in medieval times to increased agency, specifically under the influence of the Protestant Reformation—the Purim play does suggest a shift in women’s increased visibility. First and foremost, we have every reason to believe that women played the leading roles of Esther and Vashti, and thus no gender segregation or exclusion of female actors, was imposed on stage. Furthermore, the audience too, most likely included all members of the local families, allowing women, men, and children to mingle without any radical division between the sexes. Finally, the subject matter itself, placed women, their sexuality, and agency, at the very center of the plot and action. Of crucial importance here is the question of how the vocal, physical, and visual enactment of a biblical story informs our understanding of how women contributed to shaping Judaism through the public performance of devotional piety. The eighteenth century was a theatrical age in France, in spite of certain waves of censorship that primarily impacted Parisian theaters. While the place of men and women in the drama world was not one of equality, women were playwrights, actresses (Figure 3.33), and certainly present in the audience. Some among the illustrious French women playwrights even included outspoken feminists.141 Women characters in eighteenth-century French theater—unlike in religious medieval mystery plays where all roles were performed by men— usually featured both male and female actors acting side by side. The presence of women actors can be illustrated by numerous paintings and engravings. Among these is a 1784 print depicting the stage of the Théâtre de Beaujolais in Paris where we can see two men standing next to what is undoubtedly a woman. Another 1778 print shows the stage at the Théâtre Français, where a large group of actors comprises once again both men and women appearing next to each other.142 Despite the common inclusion of female and male actors in most eighteenth-century plays, cross-dressing continued as a popular tradition.143 Regarding the spectators, theaters were not only known for bringing together individuals or groups from various social classes, but they clearly included mixed audiences. An eighteenth-century drawing of the Comédie-Française in

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Figure 3.33  Portrait of French actress Mademoiselle Dubois as Zaïre, eighteenth century. Hand-colored lithograph. Public Domain. https://commons​.wikimedia​ .org​/ wiki​/ File​: M​. elle​_ dubois​_ dans​_ le​_ r​% C3​% B4le​_ de​_ Za​% C3​% AFre_ (BM_1871,1209.2807).jpg.

Paris (Figure 3.34), featuring a bucolic scene flanked on the left and right by crowded boxes and showing below a section of the orchestral seats, illustrates this clearly.144 Though the capital did not mirror societal norms in the south, nor necessarily the customs of the Jews, no evidence seems to suggest that the segregation in the synagogue was duplicated on the Tricadou. In other words, while there is no unequivocal proof for the inclusion of women for the female characters in the Esther play in pre-Revolution Avignon and the Comtat, their exclusion on stage or their seclusion within the audience seems highly unlikely. Cross-dressing in Judaism, especially rabbinic interpretations of Deuteronomy (21:10-25-19), was generally viewed as an abomination.145 Including both women and men in various kinds of festivities, however, appeared to be the norm. Celebrations of weddings in synagogue courtyards, for instance, as iterated earlier in this chapter, such as visible on a 1726 engraving showing a Jewish wedding ceremony next to Nuremberg’s Altshul (Figure 3.30), suggests that it was only within the house of worship that women and men were kept apart. Finally, Purim carnivals and celebrations were known to be especially lenient if not directly opposed to traditional norms.146 Considering the increasing wealth of the Carpentras community in the eighteenth century, their access to luxury goods, especially elegant clothing and jewelry, not to mention their apparent desire to

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Figure 3.34  Interior of the Comédie-Française in Paris as originally designed by Victor Louis in 1790. Drawn by Antoine Meunier. Lacroix, XVIIIème siècle, 431. Public Domain. https://fr​.m​.wikipedia​.org​/wiki​/Fichier​:Paris​_Comedie​-Francaise​.jpg.

imitate their gentile neighbors’ taste for fashion and style, I would imagine their Purim performances as analogous to those seen on the Parisian and provincial theater stages. Beyond the now longstanding scholarly interest in various historical and literary aspects of the biblical story as well as its numerous adaptations, visual and textual, the most recent interpretative analysis brings the characters and plot into dialogue with contemporary theory concerning gender, ethnicity, and social agency.147 At the focus now are questions such as how gendered bodies in the Esther story negotiate political power, or how the narrative and its rhetoric of exile and empowerment have shaped the discourse of marginalized peoples, including but not limited to Jews and women; or how Esther and Vashti can be understood as two clear types of female resistance in the face of absolute male power.148 More directly relevant to the historical context of the Provençal play is Nicole Hochner’s study exploring how the characterization of the biblical Esther in early modern France was instrumental in challenging and renegotiating the monarchical institution. She convincingly argues, Literary and visual representations of Esther suggest that the queen’s involvement is critical in ensuring justice and peace in the realm as she successfully turns Ahashverosh into a genuine king able to listen, share, and free

Sacred Space  197 his people from oppression and tyranny. Despite her apparent humility and obedience, Esther provides a further argument in favor of a constitutional and moderate monarchy in which the queen’s duty is to intercede to prevent abuses of power.149 If this argument is applied to the Judeo-Comtadin theatrical interpretation of the Esther story, Jewish women’s agency may not have been limited to changing the ways of worship that—if only for certain occasions—had moved from an enclosed and hierarchical gendered architecture to an open-air space accommodating an “egalitarian” performance of piety. The performance of the biblical story in the vernacular language rather than reading it or listening to it in Hebrew, allowed access to the narrative to women. Furthermore, bringing women and men together on the stage and in the audience countered the radical spatial hierarchy so visible and persistent within the synagogue. But other than participating as equal agents in shaping the biblical text and the related traditions in novel ways, it may be Jewish women’s changing status vis-a-vis men overall that more than any other factor prepared these marginalized and discriminated communities of Avignon and the Comtat for their difficult journey of gradual integration as equal citizens into French society. In other words, erasing the strict gender hierarchy within the carrières may have shown the way for another, perhaps equally challenging erasure of boundaries, those that prior to the Revolution existed between Jews and Christians. Surprisingly though, while the social and religious gaps between Jews and Christians, and between the poor and the rich following the Revolution gradually diminished over time, structurally and legally, and despite countless feminist initiatives, all French women maintained a second-class status, a condition confirmed and perpetuated in the 1804 Napoleonic Code.150 If we then accept the proposition that Jewish women in the pre-Revolution papal territories were principal actors in interpreting the biblical story of Esther on stage, we can understand the importance of their embodied, visible contribution to the otherwise mostly textual tradition of interpreting ancient texts. The actors’ performance of Judaism in the example of the Esther play was not invested in transmitting accurate biblical wordings, but rather in providing opportunities to engage the community with alternative options of Jewish learning, worship, and the performance of female piety. Notes 1 According to a municipal decree from 1890 the town was renamed L’Isle-sur-laSorgue, which is the name it has retained to the present. 2 On the inscription, see André Dumoulin, Un joyau de l’art judaïque français: la synagogue de Cavaillon (Paris: Klincksieck, 1970), 20. For the cartouche itself, see Dumoulin, Un joyau de l’art judaïque français, Pl. 4 and Pl. 8. 3 On the abandonment and destruction of synagogues during the Revolution, and how this was similar to the fate of churches, see Zosa Szajkowski, “Synagogues during the French Revolution, 1789–1800,” Jewish Social Studies 20, no. 4 (1958), 215–31. 4 Cecil Roth was the first scholar to comment on how the rituals in the Comtat were unique. He, however, did not comment on the gender segregation. See Cecil Roth, “Jüdische Bräuche im Comtat Venaissin,” Menorah 4 (1927), 256–60.

198  Sacred Space 5 For a detailed historical overview, see René Moulinas, Les Juifs du Pape. Avignon et le Comtat Venaissin (Paris: Albin Michel, 1992), 7–67. 6 These exceptions were under Louis XIV in 1663 and 1688, and under Louis XV in 1768 until 1773. 7 On how the Revolution impacted the Jewish communities in the Vaucluse, see René Moulinas, “Les Juifs d’Avignon et du Comtat et la Révolution Française,” Annales historiques de la Révolution française 48, no. 223 (1976), 121–60. 8 William Chester Jordan, “The Jews and the Transition to Papal Rule in the ComtatVenaissin,” in Michael: On the History of the Jews in the Diaspora, Vol. 12, edited by Daniel Carpi et al. (Tel Aviv: Diaspora Research Institute, Tel Aviv University, 1991), 217. 9 On education, see Marianne Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 62–5. On the rabbi’s responsibilities, see Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 163–67. Zosa Szajkowski argued that both Jewish girls and boys were educated, sometimes even co-ed. See Zosa Szajkowski, “The Decline and Fall of Provençal Jewry,” Jewish Social Studies 6, no. 1 (1944), 51. 10 On the liturgical contributions, see Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 154–57. On various relevant legal documents, see Léon Bardinet, “Antiquité et organisation des juiveries du Comtat Venaissin,” Revue des études juives 4 (1880), 262–92. 11 As opposed to Jews, who wrote and spoke Judeo-Provençal (also known as Shuadit or Hebraico-Provençal), the authorities used Latin, French, Italian, and Provençal. On the various sources and the languages used, see Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 15–17, 146–67. 12 For a detailed description of the four carrières, and how these evolved over time, see René Moulinas, Les Juifs du Pape en France. Les communautés d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Toulouse: Privat, 1981), 78–90; and Moulinas, Les Juifs du Pape, 71–102. For a detailed description of the carrière at Avignon, see Philippe Prévot, Histoire du ghetto d’Avignon. A travers la carrière des juifs d’Avignon (Avignon: Aubanel, 1975). 13 Bibliothèque Inguimbertine, Carpentras, MS 560, No. 124; Bibliothèque Inguimbertine, Carpentras, Cartulaire de l’Évêchée, 1: 121. See also Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 22. 14 Georges Brun, Les juifs du Pape à Carpentras (Carpentras: Le Nombre d’Or, 1975), 62. 15 Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 28. 16 For a brief, but excellent summary of the carrières, in particular during the eighteenth century, see Solomon Posener, “The Social Life of the Jewish Communities in France in the 18th Century,” Jewish Social Studies 7, no. 3 (1945), 195–232. 17 My own translation. Aubin-Louis Millin, Voyage dans les départements du midi de la France, Vol. 2 (Paris: Imprimerie Impériale, 1807), 179. See also Hyacinthe Chobaut, “Les Juifs d’Avignon et du Comtat et la Révolution française. La fin des quatre carrières (1787–1800),” Revue des études juives 1 (1937), 8–9. 18 Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 43. 19 Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 43. 20 Moulinas, Les Juifs du Pape en France, 93; Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 44. 21 Brun, Les juifs du Pape à Carpentras, 95. 22 Regarding the exact locations and how they changed over time, see Moulinas, Les Juifs du Pape en France, 93–5; Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 44. 23 René De Maulde, “Coutumes et règlements de la République d’Avignon au treizième siècle (deuxième article),” Nouvelle revue historique de droit français et étranger, Vol. 1 (1877), 195. 24 Moulinas, Les Juifs du Pape en France, 112.

Sacred Space  199 25 Despite the medieval laws of segregation, Noël Coulet argues that the Jews of the Comtat were surprisingly integrated, culturally and linguistically. See Noël Coulet, “Frontières incertaines: les Juifs de Provence au Moyen Âge,” Provence historique 35 (1985), 371–6. 26 On the theory of performance, two scholars, Victor Turner and Richard Schechner, have drawn attention to the performative nature of societies, meaning that events and rituals as well as daily life are all governed by a code of performance. In other words, every individual and society puts on a performance for their respective communities. Judith Butler and Jacques Derrida have written about the manner in which performances seek to reinforce and communicate identities. See Victor Turner, The Anthropology of Performance (New York: PAJ Publications: A Journal of Performance and Art, 1988); Richard Schechner, Between Theater and Anthropology (Philadelphia: Pennsylvania University Press, 1985); Judith Butler, Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative (London and New York: Routledge Classics Edition, 2021). 27 On the origins of synagogues, see Israel Levine, “The Nature and Origin of the Palestinian Synagogue Reconsidered,” The Journal of Biblical Literature 115, no. 3 (1996), 425–48; Israel Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 23–44. 28 For a concise summary of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, Katharina Galor and Hanswulf Bloedhorn, The Archaeology of Jerusalem: From the Origins to the Ottomans (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 35–7, 59–61, 76–88. More specifically on Herod’s temple, see Katharina Galor, “Zur Ehre Gottes und des Königs. Stadt und Tempel von Jerusalem,” in Herodes, König von Judäa. Baumeister, “Kindermörder”, Römerfreund, edited by Jürgen Zangenberg (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2016), 61–9. 29 In contrast to most American and Israeli scholars, who believe that synagogues were built in references to the Tabernacle and the Jerusalem temples, Dominique Jarassé argues against this connection. See Dominique Jarassé, Synagogues: une architecture de l’identité juive (Paris: Adam Biro, 2001). 30 On how ancient synagogues differed from the Tabernacle and Jerusalem temples, see Rachel Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues—Archaeology and Art: New Discoveries and Current Research. Handbook of Oriental Studies. Section 1, Ancient Near East, Vol. 105 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 5–6. 31 See Galor and Bloedhorn, The Archaeology of Jerusalem, 3–5. 32 See Heinrich Kohl and Carl Watzinger, Antike Synagogen in Galilaea. Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orientgesellschaft, Vol. 29 (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs‘sche Buchhandlung, 1916). 33 See Eleazar Lipa Sukenik, Ancient Synagogues in Palestine and Greece. British Academy London: The Schweich Lectures, Vol. 23 (London: British Academy, 1934). On the history of ancient synagogues is Israel-Palestine see also, Steven Fine ed., The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). 34 Rachel Hachlili, “The origins of the synagogue: a re-assessment,” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period 28, no. 1 (1997), 36–7. 35 For a brief overview on Second Temple Period synagogues, see Lester Grabbe, “Synagogues in Pre-70 Palestine: A Re-Assessment,” The Journal of Theological Studies. NEW SERIES 39, no. 2 (1988) 401–10. For a more detailed and up-to-date survey and analysis, see Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues, 23–42. 36 On how this was different for Samaritan synagogues, which only referenced the Tabernacle, and were oriented towards Mount Gerizim, rather than towards Jerusalem, see Yitzhak Magen, “Samaritan Synagogues,” Qadmoniot: A Journal for the Antiquities of Eretz-Israel and Bible Lands 3, no. 4 (1992), 66–90 [Hebrew]; Reinhard Pummer, “Synagogues–Samaritan and Jewish: A New Look at Their Differentiating

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Characteristics,” in The Samaritans in Historical, Cultural and Linguistic Perspectives. Studia Judaica 110, Studia Samaritana 11, edited by Jan Dusek (Berlin: DeGruyter, 2018), 51–74. On the reference of synagogues to the desert Tabernacle and the Jerusalem Temples, see Shubert Spero, “From Tabernacle (Mishkan) and Temple (Mikdash) to Synagogue (Bet Knesset),” Tradition: A Journal of Orthodox Jewish Thought 38, no. 3 (2004), 60–85. On how this shaped post-70 CE Judaism in general, see Dalia Marx, “The Missing Temple: The Status of the Temple in Jewish Culture Following Its Destruction,” European Judaism: A Journal for the New Europe 46, no. 2 (2013), 61–78. On how this shaped synagogue architecture specifically, see Ze’ev Safrai, “From the Synagogue to ‘Little Temple,’” Proceedings of the World Congress of Jewish Studies. Division B, Vol. 2: The History of the Jewish People (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1989), 23–8. On figurative motifs in ancient synagogues, see Hachlili, Ancient Synagogues, 223– 472. On medieval synagogues, see Richard Krautheimer, Mittelalterliche Synagogen (Berlin: Frankfurter Verlags-Anstalt, 1927); Rachel Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogue (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1964), 18–56; Geoffrey Wigoder, The Story of the Synagogue. A Diaspora Museum Book (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1986), 35–72; Carol Herselle Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe. Architecture, History, Meaning (Mineola: Dover Publications, 1985), 38–46. Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogue, 76–147; Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 47–59. Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 21. For a brief history of the four synagogues, see Armand Lunel, “Les synagogues comtadines,” L’Oeil 4 (1955), 14–17; Catherine Guigon, “Les synagogues des ‘Juifs du Pape’,” L’Histoire 17 (2001). Moulinas, Les Juifs du Pape en France, 91. René Moulinas, “Les vieilles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin,” Archives juives 1 (1980), 16. See François Arnavon, Retour de la Fontaine de Vaucluse, 2nd ed. (Paris: Imprimerie De Gillé, 181 4), 58; Moulinas, “Les vieilles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin,” 24. The excavations were directed by Emilie Porcher between 2021 and 2022 on behalf of the Direction du Patrimoine of L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The exposed remains were covered up in June 2022. On the medieval synagogue, see Paul Achard, Guide du voyageur ou dictionnaire historique des rues et places de la ville d’Avignon (A vignon: Seguin aîné, 1857). On the eighteenth-century synagogue, see Bardinet, “Antiquité et organisation des juiveries du Comtat Venaissin,” 270–71. Moulinas, “Les vieilles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin,” 18. My own translation. M. Vandebrande and August Fryderyk Moszyński, La Ronde de Jacquemart. Les carnets du voyageur (A vignon: Librarie contemporaine, 1984), 25–6. Aurélie Bonan, Patrimoine juif d’Avignon et du Comtat. Parcours du Patrimoine (Lyon: Lieux Dits, 2019), 75–87. On the synagogue, see Henri Dubled, “Les juifs de Carpentras à partir du XIIIe siècle,” Provence historique 19 (1969), 233. To contextualize the construction of the synagogue into the larger architectural landscape of Carpentras, see Henri Dubled, “Carpentras son développement architectural du XIVe siècle au rattachement du Comtat Venaissin à la France (1791),” Monuments historiques 170 (1990), 89–93.

Sacred Space  201 52 On the expulsion of the Jews at the beginning of the fourteenth century by the pope, indicating that the Jews were not always protected, see Valérie Theis, “Jean XXII et l’expulsion des juifs du Comtat Venaissin,” Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales 67, no. 1 (2012), 41–77. 53 On the early synagogue structures at Cavaillon, see Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 239–40; Hyacinthe Chobaut, “Notes archéologiques sur Cavaillon,” Mémoires de l’Académie de Vaucluse 33 (1933), 48–51. 54 See Martine Audibert, “Synagogues en Vaucluse,” Monuments historiques 170 (1990), 53–4. 55 On how the luxurious décor was mirrored by the apparel women and men wore in Carpentras, see Cecil Roth, “Sumptuary Laws of the Community of Carpentras,” The Jewish Quarterly Review 18, no. 4 (1928), 357–83. 56 See Moulinas, “Les vieilles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin,” 16. 57 On how the synagogues of Avignon and the Comtat fit into the larger category of Renaissance and Baroque synagogues in central Europe, see Maurice-Ruben Hayoun and Dominique Jarrassé, Les synagogues. Que sais-je? 3430 (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1999), 71–9. 58 Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 22. 59 Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 22. 60 This was not yet the case in medieval synagogues, where the ark was generally a modest object. 61 On the Carpentras synagogue, see Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 239–42; Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 37–43. 62 Moulinas identifies the style of the chair with the Louis XV style, possibly based on Pierre Lavedan’s earlier stylistic analysis. See Moulinas, “Les vieilles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin,” 22; Pierre Lavedan, “Les synagogues de Carpentras et de Cavaillon,” Congrès archéologique de France CXXI (1946), 311. Geoffrey Wigoder, instead, identifies the style as Louis XIV. See Wigoder, The Story of the Synagogue, 113. On how this tradition of including a Chair of Elijah in a synagogue may be rooted in the tradition of a Chair of Moses in ancient synagogues, see Levi Yizhaq Rahmani, “Stone Synagogue Chairs: Their Identification, Use and Significance,” Israel Exploration Journal 40, no. 2/3 (1990), 200. 63 See Isidore Loeb, “Les juifs de Carpentras sous le gouvernement pontifical,” Revue des études juives 12 (1886), 228. 64 Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 241. 65 For the Spanish synagogue in Pesaro, see Wigoder, The Story of the Synagogue, 79. For the Scuola Levantina in Venice, see Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 62. 66 Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 241. 67 See Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogue, 73; Fritz Baer, Die Juden im Christlichen Spanien. Aragonien und Navarra (Berlin: Schocken Verlag, 1929), 521. 68 On the synagogue of Cavaillon, see Dumoulin, Un joyau de l’art judaïque français. For a brief overview, see Sylvie Grange, Cavaillon: une synagogue comme un musée (Paris: Monuments historiques, 1994). 69 On the original synagogue, see Dumoulin, Un joyau de l’art judaïque français, 18–19. 70 Dumoulin, Un joyau de l’art judaïque français, 23, Pl. 17a. 71 Dumoulin, Un joyau de l’art judaïque français, 23, Pl. 18b. 72 My own translation. 73 On the fate of synagogues and churches during the French Revolution, see Szajkowski, “Synagogues during the French Revolution,” 215–31. Specifically on the fate of the Cavaillon synagogue, see Chobaut, “Les Juifs d’Avignon,” 32. 74 On the ark of the law, see Rivka Gonen, Contested Holiness. Jewish, Muslim and Christian Perspectives on the Temple Mount (Jersey City: KTAV Publishing House, 2003), 73.

202  Sacred Space 75 On the bi-focal design in synagogues of southern Europe, Italy, and the Provence between the fifteenth and the eighteenth centuries, see Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogue, 17–75. On the aedicula frame as a typical Renaissance motif, see specifically p. 61. 76 On the menorah, see Rachel Hachlili, The Menorah. Evolving into the Most Important Jewish Symbol (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 1–79. 77 Carol L. Meyers, “Was There a Seven-Branched Lampstand in Solomon’s Temple,” Biblical Archaeology Review 5, no. 5 (1979), 46–57. 78 Moulinas, “Les vieilles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin,” 20. 79 See Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 475; Ze’ev Safrai, “Dukhan, Aron and Teva: How Was the Ancient Synagogue Furnished?” in Ancient Synagogues in Israel: Third— Seventh Century C.E., BAR International Series, edited by Rachel Hachili (Oxford: BAR, 1989), 79; Rachel Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Land of Israel (Leiden: Brill, 1988), 195–6; Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman period, Vol. 1 (New York: Pantheon Books, 1953), 182; and Sukenik, Ancient Synagogues in Palestine and Greece, 48. 80 Kohl and Watzinger, Antike Synagogen in Galilaea. See also, Samuel Krauss, Die galiläischen Synagogenruinen iii (Berlin: Veröffentlichung der Gesellschaft für Palästinaforschung 1911), 15; Carl Hermann Kraeling, The Synagogue (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1956); Nahman Avigad, “Beth Alpha,” in The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, edited by Ephraim Stern (Jerusalem: The Israel Exploration Society & Carta, 1993), 191. 81 See Leopold Löw, “Der synagogale Ritus,” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 33 (1884), 364–74. 82 Bernadette Brooten, Women Leaders in the Ancient Synagogue: Inscriptional Evidence and Background Issues (Chico: Scholars Press, 1982), 136. 83 Krautheimer, Mittelalterliche Synagogen, 54. 84 Brooten, Women Leaders in the Ancient Synagogue, 136. 85 Shmuel Safrai, “Was There a Women’s Gallery in the Ancient Synagogue?” Tarbiz 32 (1963), 329–30 [Hebrew]. 86 For her survey of archaeological remains, see Brooten, Women Leaders in the Ancient Synagogue, 103–38. 87 See among others, Judith Baskin, “The Separation of Women in Rabbinic Judaism,” in Women, Religion and Social Change, edited by Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and Ellison Banks Findly (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1985), 10; Louis H. Feldman, “Diaspora Synagogues: New Light from Inscriptions and Papyri,” in Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World, edited by Steven Fine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 56–8, 61–2, 66; Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 471–90; John T. Townsend, “Creation and Gender in Rabbinic Literature,” Encounter 55, no. 1 (1994), 9–12. 88 Hannah Safrai, “Women and the Ancient Synagogue,” in Daughters of the King: Women and the Synagogue. A Survey of History, Halakhah, and Contemporary Realities, edited by Susan Grossman and Rivka Haut (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1992), 46–7. 89 Among those who now defend the theory that women and men sat together in ancient synagogues are Safrai, “Women and the Ancient Synagogue,” 39–50; Ross Kraemer, “Jewish Women and Women’s Judaism(s) at the Beginning of Christianity,” in Women and Christian Origins, edited by Ross Kraemer and Mary Rose D’Angelo (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 64–5; Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 477. 90 Chad Spigel, “Reconsidering the Question of Separate Seating in Ancient Synagogues,” Journal of Jewish Studies 63, no. 1 (2012), 62–83. 91 On space dividers made of organic materials, see Katharina Galor, “Domestic Architecture in Roman and Byzantine Galilee and Golan,” Near Eastern Archaeology 66 (2003), 56.

Sacred Space  203 92 Shaye Cohen, “Purity and Piety: The Separation of Menstruants from the Sancta,” in Daughters of the King,” 106–8. 93 Susan Grossman, “Women and the Jerusalem Temple,” in Daughters of the King, 15–37. In contrast to Susan Grossman, Judith Romney Wegner argued that women were excluded from the sancta, specifically in the context of the Temple. See Judith Romney Wegner, “‘Coming Before the Lord’: The Exclusion of Women from the Public Domain of the Israelite Priestly Cult,” in The Book of Leviticus: Composition and Reception. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum, edited by Rolf Rendtorff and Robert A. Kugler (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 451–65. 94 Susan Grossman points out that the Misnah does not yet mention the separation of the sexes (M. Sukkah 5:2). See Grossman, “Women and the Jerusalem Temple,” 28. 95 Emily Taitz, “Women’s Voices, Women’s Prayers: Women in the European Synagogues of the Middle Ages,” in Daughters of the King, 62; and Elisheva Baumgarten, “Praying Separately? Gender in Medieval Ashkenazi Synagogues (Thirteenth–Fourteenth Centuries),” Clio. Women, Gender, History 44 (2016), 44–62. 96 In thirteenth-century Worms, for instance, Urania is credited with being the women’s prayer leader there. See, Israel Abrahams, Jewish Life in the Middle Ages (London: Edward Golston, 1932), 39; Elisheva Cohen-Harris, “Where Did Medieval Jewish Women Stand? Visual Sources, Halakhic Writings and Architecture,” Conservative Judaism 52 (2000), 5–6. 97 Chava Weissler, “Women’s Studies and Women’s Prayers: Reconstructing the Religious History of Ashkenazic Women,” Jewish Social Studies (New Series), 1, no. 2 (1995), 28–47. 98 Cohen-Harris, “Where Did Medieval Jewish Women Stand?” 3. 99 Cohen-Harris, “Where Did Medieval Jewish Women Stand?” 11. 100 This is contrary to what Krautheimer has argued, namely that in the fourteenth- and fifteenth-century miniatures showing religious ceremonies, there are no images of women at all. See, Krautheimer, Mittelalterliche Synagogen, 87. Cohen-Harris comments on the fact that women and men are separated by a page break but does still believe that they were not separated in the synagogue. See Cohen-Harris, “Where Did Medieval Jewish Women Stand?” 6–7. 101 See Alfred Rubens, A Jewish Iconography (London: Nonpareil, 1981), 229; Krautheimer, Mittelalterliche Synagogen, 117. 102 The original was featured in Paul Christian Kirchner, Jüdisches Ceremoniel oder Beschreibungen derjenigen Gebräuche (Nürnberg: Veerlegts Peter Conrad Monath, 1726). See Wigoder, The Story of the Synagogue, 52. 103 On this, see for instance Elisheva Baumgarten, “Gender and Daily Life in Jewish Communities,” in The Oxford Handbook of Women and Gender in Medieval Europe, edited by Judith Bennett and Ruth Mazo Karras (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 221. 104 On women’s galleries in the Islamic world, see Mohammad Gharipour, Synagogues in the Islamic World (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017), 40, 42, 64, 78–81, 88–104, 152, 169–78, 189, 172, 178, 210–4, 267, 283. 105 On ritual arrangements for women in European synagogues, and specifically on galleries see Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 28–31, 52. On women’s place in later French synagogues beginning in the mid-nineteenth century, see Béatrice De Gasquet, “Le balcon, les pots de fleurs et la mehitza: Histoire de la politisation religieuse du genre dans les synagogues françaises,” Archives des sciences des religions 177 (2017), 73–96. On the development and the variations of mixed versus separate prayer spaces in modern and contemporary French synagogues, see Béatrice De Gasquet and Heloise Finch-Boyer, “Going beyond the forbidden,” Clio. Women, Gender, History 44 (2016), 122–44. On traditional and egalitarian gender roles and perceptions of women in American Jewish worship, and how this impacts contemporary synagogue design, see Jerome Legge and Joya Misra, “Examining the Concept of Gender Role

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125 126 127 128

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Ideology: Women in Traditional Jewish worship,” Contemporary Jewry 19 (1998), 95–119. My own translation. Loeb, “Les Juifs de Carpentras,” 227. My own translation. Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie et Francine-Dominique Liechtenhan, Le Voyage de Thomas Platter: 1595–1599 (Paris: Fayard, 2000), 374–6; Brun, Les juifs du Pape à Carpentras, 36. On Thomas Platter, see also Salomon Kahn, “Thomas Platter et les Juifs d’Avignon,” Revue des études juives 25, no. 49 (1892), 81–96. My own translation. Vandebrande and Moszyński, La Ronde de Jacquemart, 25–6. My own translation. Edmond Martène et al., Voyage littéraire de deux religieux bénédictins de la congrégation de St. Maur (Paris: Delaulne, 1717), 289. My own translation. Notaires L’Isle, Fds Moureau 253, f. 410, September 11, 1691; 410, f. 462 v, August 30, 1734. My own translation. Notaires L’Isle, Fds Moureau 439, f. 216, 222, 231; 410, f. 437 v, 441, 449, 462 v. My own translation. Notaires L’Isle, Fds Moureau 253, f. 410, September 11, 1691; 410, f. 462 v, August 30, 1734. Notaires L’Isle, Fds Moureau 253, f. 410, September 11, 1691; 410, f. 462 v, August 30, 1734. My own translation. Notaires Cavaillon, Fds Guis 307, f. 29 v, February 16, 1785. My own translation. Notaires Cavaillon, Fds Guis 307, f. 29 v, February 16, 1785. My own translation. Paul Hildenfinger, “Documents relatifs aux juifs d’Arles,” Revue des études juives 48 (1904), 76. My own translation. Moulinas, “Les vielles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin,” 21, n. 32. Collection Alphandéry. My own translation. Notaires Avignon, Fds de Beaulieu 1841, f. 501 v; Guigon, “Les synagogues des ‘Juifs du Pape’.” Recent excavations conducted between 2021 and 2022 established the exact location within the carrière and exposed the foundations of the women’s section which originally supported the men’s prayer hall. The reports have not yet been published. For an aerial view of the excavation prior to being covered up in June 2022, see Figure 3.11. Audibert, “Synagogues en Vaucluse,” 57. Audibert, “Synagogues en Vaucluse,” 57. Today, women and men sit all in the same main space of the synagogue, with women on one side and the men on the other facing each other. For a more detailed description of the Avignon synagogue, see Bonan, Patrimoine Juif d’Avignon et du Comtat, 75–86. On Shuadit, see George Jochnowitz, “Shuadit: la langue juive de Provence,” Archives juives 14 (1987), 63–7; George Jochnowitz, “Judeo-Provençal in Southern France,” in Languages in Jewish Communities, Past and Present. Contributions to the Sociology of Language, edited by Benjamin Harry and Sarah Bunin Benor (Berlin: DeGruyter, 2018), 129–44. George Jochnowitz, “…Who Made Me a Woman,” Commentary Magazine. Culture & Civilization (1981), 1–3. See Raphael Patai, Encyclopedia of Jewish Folklore and Traditions, Vol. 1–2 (New York: Routledge, 2013), 253. Barry Freundel, Contemporary Orthodox Judaism’s Response to Modernity (Jersey City: KTAV Publishing House, 2004), 275. Cohen analyzes the rabbinic discussion of this prayer in the context of the broader question of the androcentric nature of the biblical and rabbinic texts. See Cohen, Shaye, Why Aren’t Jewish Women Circumcised. Gender and Covenant in Judaism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 125–8. See for instance a report from Berlin, 1817. “Aus Einem Briefe aus Berlin,” Sulamith 5, no. 1, (1817), 279. Translation from Klaus Herrmann, “Jewish Confirmation

Sacred Space  205

130 131 132 133

134

135 136 137 138

139 140

141

142 143 144 145

Sermons in 19th-Century Germany,” in Preaching in Judaism and Christianity, edited by Alexander Deeg et al. (Berlin: DeGruyter, 2008), 103–4. My own translation. Taitz, “Women’s Voices, Women’s Prayers,” 62. Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 146–7. For the Middle Ages, see Judith Baskin, “Some Parallels in the Education of Medieval Jewish and Christian Women,” Jewish History 5, no. 1 (1991), 41–2. Regarding literacy rates in sixteenth- through nineteenth-century France, especially in relation to other Western European countries, see Tyrel Eskelson, “States, Institutions, and Literacy Rates in Early-Modern Western Europe,” Journal of Education and Learning 10, no. 2 (2021), 115–17. On the delayed consequences of the Council of Trent regarding the segregation of women in the church, see Robert Beck, L’Histoire du dimanche de 1700 à nos jours (Paris: Éditions Ouvrières, 1997), 110; On gendered spaces in the church, especially in pre- and post-Revolution France, also in relationship to contemporary synagogues, see Béatrice De Gasquet, “‘Comme à la messe: hommes à droite, femmes à gauche’: batailles de bancs à l’église,” Hypotheses (2019); and Katherine French, “The Seat under Our Lady: Gender Seating and Seating in Late Medieval English Parish Churches,” in Women’s Space: Patronage, Place, and Gender in the Medieval Church, edited by Virginia Chieffo Raguin and Sarah Stanbury (New York: State University of New York Press, 2005), 141–60. For a detailed account of the play, with numerous quotes, also placing it into the context of Jean Racine’s play Esther from 1689 see Brun, Les juifs du Pape à Carpentras, 109–29. For the text of the play, see Paul Meyer, “La reine Esther, tragédie provençale. Reproduction de l’édition unique de 1771, avec introduction et notes, par Ernest Sabatier,” Romania 6, no. 22 (1877), 301. Calmann, The Carrière of Carpentras, 149–50. On various vernacular and literary adaptions of the biblical Esther story, see among others Emily Colbert Cairns, “Esther in Inquisitorial Iberia and the Sephardic Diaspora,” Hispanófila 175 (2015), 183–200; Babette Bohn, “Esther as a Model for Female Autonomy in Northern Italian Art,” Studies in Iconography 23 (2002), 183–201. On the musical interpretation, see Armand Lunel, “The Jews of the South of France,” Hebrew Union College Annual, Vol. 89 (2018), 17–8, 135. For an analysis of the biblical story of Esther and for later rabbinic interpretations, see Aaron Koller, Esther in Ancient Jewish Thought (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014). For instance, La hermosa Ester, a three-act comedy by Lope de Vega, which first performed in Madrid in 1610, recontextualizes the biblical story with direct references to the Sephardic diaspora, specifically in Spain. On the play and its larger socio-political implications, see Colbert Cairns, “Esther among Crypto-Jews and Christians,” 98, 102–8. One example would be playwright Marie-Anne Barbier. See English Showalter, Jr., “Writing off the Stage, Women Authors and Eighteenth-Century Theater,” Yale French Studies 75 (1988), The Politics of Tradition: Placing Women in French Literature (1988), 98–100. Both prints are at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. See also: http://www​.regietheatrale​.com​/index​/index​/thematiques​/histdestheatres​/6​-18eme​.html. On the increased wealth and taste for luxury goods, especially women’s clothes and jewelry, see Roth, “Sumptuary Laws,” 357–83. See: https://libretheatre​.fr​/le​-theatre​-au​-xviiieme​-siecle/. Only recent queer readings of Deuteronomy and Talmudic interpretations have come to an opposite conclusion namely that cross-dressing per se was not forbidden,

206  Sacred Space

146 147 148

149 150

but rather the falsification of one’s identity. On this, see Ellio Kukla and Reuben Zellman, “To Wear Is Human to Live—Divine: Parashat Ki Tetse (Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19),” in Torah Queeries: Weekly Commentaries on the Hebrew Bible, edited by Gregg Drinkwater et al. (New York: New York University Press, 2009), 254–8. On diversions and transgressions during Purim in eighteenth-, nineteenth-, and early twentieth-century Europe, see Elliott Horowitz, Reckless Rites. Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). See among others, Beal, The Book of Hiding: Linda M. Day, Esther (Nashville: Abingdon, 2009). On how gendered bodies negotiate political power in the Esther story, see Drora Oren, “Esther—The Jewish Queen of Persia,” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender 18, Iranian Jewish Women (2009), 140–65. On how the rhetoric of exile has shaped the discourse of various marginalized peoples, see Susan Zaeske, “Unveiling Esther as a Pragmatic Radial Rhetoric,” Philosophy & Rhetoric 33, no. 3 (2000), 193– 220; Allen Callahan, “Vashti,” in Loving the Body. Black Religious Studies and the Erotic, edited by Anthony Pinn and Dwight Hopkins (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 91–107. On the different performances of resistance embodied by Esther and Vashti, see Deborah F. Sawyer, “Queen Vashti's ‘No’ and What It Can Tell Us About Gender Tools in Biblical Narrative,” in The Bible and Feminism: Remapping the Field, edited by Yvonne Sherwood (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 343–57. Nicole Hochner, “Imagining Esther in Early Modern France,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 41, no. 3 (2010), 757, 759. On French women’s compromised legal status after the Revolution, see Jennifer Ngaire Heuer, The Family and the Nation: Gender and Citizenship in Revolutionary France, 1789–1830 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005).

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Sacred Space  207 ———. “Praying Separately? Gender in Medieval Ashkenazi Synagogues (ThirteenthFourteenth Centuries).” Clio. Women, Gender, History 44 (2016): 44–62. Beal, Timothy K. The Book of Hiding: Gender, Ethnicity, Annihilation, and Esther. London and New York: Routledge, 1997. Beck, Robert. L’Histoire du dimanche de 1700 à nos jours. Paris: Éditions Ouvrières, 1997. Bohn, Babette. “Esther as a Model for Female Autonomy in Northern Italian Art.” Studies in Iconography 23 (2002): 183–201. Bonan, Aurélie. Patrimoine juif d’Avignon et du Comtat. Parcours du Patrimoine. Lyon: Lieux Dits, 2019. Brooten, Bernadette. Women Leaders in the Ancient Synagogue: Inscriptional Evidence and Background Issues. Chico: Scholars Press, 1982. Brun, Georges. Les juifs du Pape à Carpentras. Carpentras: Le Nombre d’Or, 1975. Butler, Judith. Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative. London and New York: Routledge Classics Edition, 2021. Callahan, Allen. “Vashti.” In Loving the Body. Black Religious Studies and the Erotic, edited by Anthony Pinn and Dwight Hopkins, 91–107. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004. Calman, Marianne. The Carrière of Carpentras. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984. Chobaut, Hyacinthe. “Notes archéologiques sur Cavaillon.” Mémoires de l’Académie de Vaucluse 33 (1933): 39–51. ———. “Les Juifs d’Avignon et du Comtat et la Révolution française. La fin des quatre carrières (1787–1800).” Revue des études juives 1 (1937): 5–52. Cohen, Shaye. “Purity and Piety: The Separation of Menstruants from the Sancta.” In Daughters of the King: Women and the Synagogue. A Survey of History, Halakhah, and Contemporary Realities, edited by Susan Gorssman and Rivka Haut, 103–115. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992. Cohen, Shaye. Why Aren’t Jewish Women Circumcised. Gender and Covenant in Judaism. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Cohen-Harris, Elisheva. “Where Did Medieval Jewish Women Stand? Visual Sources, Halakhic Writings and Architecture.” Conservative Judaism 52 (2000): 5–6. Colbert Cairns, Emily. “Esther among Crypto-Jews and Christians: Queen Esther and the Inquisition Manuscripts de Carvajal and Lope de Vega’s La hermosa Ester.” Chasqui 42, no. 2 (2013): 98–109. ———. “Esther in Inquisitorial Iberia and the Sephardic Diaspora.” Hispanófila 175 (2015): 183–200. Coulet, Noël. “Frontières incertaines: les Juifs de Provence au Moyen Âge.” Provence historique 35 (1985): 371–376. Day, Linda M. Esther. Nashville: Abingdon, 2009. De Gasquet, Béatrice. “Le balcon, les pots de fleurs et la mehitza. Histoire de la politisation religieuse du genre dans les synagogues françaises.” Archives des sciences des religions 177 (2017): 73–96. De Gasquet, Béatrice and Heloise Finch-Boyer. “Going beyond the Forbidden.” Clio. Women, Gender, History 44 (2016): 122–144. ———. “‘Comme à la messe: hommes à droite, femmes à gauche’: batailles de bancs à l’église.” Hypotheses (2019). https://matieres​.hypotheses​.org​/293. De Maulde, René. “Coutumes et règlements de la République d’Avignon au treizième siècle (deuxième article).” Nouvelle revue historique de droit français et étranger 1 (1877): 179–238. Dubled, Henri. “Les juifs de Carpentras à partir du XIIIe siècle.” Provence historique 19 (1969): 214–235.

208  Sacred Space ———. “Carpentras son développement architectural du XIVe siècle au rattachement du Comtat Venaissin à la France (1791).” Monuments historiques 170 (1990): 89–93. Dumoulin, André. Un joyau de l’art judaïque français: la synagogue de Cavaillon. Paris: Klincksieck, 1970. Eskelson, Tyrel. “States, Institutions, and Literacy Rates in Early-Modern Western Europe.” Journal of Education and Learning 10, no. 2 (2021): 115–117. Feldman, Louis H. “Diaspora Synagogues: New Light from Inscriptions and Papyri.” In Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World, edited by Steven Fine, 49–50. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. Fine, Steven, ed. The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. French, Katherine. “The Seat under Our Lady: Gender Seating and Seating in Late Medieval English Parish Churches.” In Women’s Space: Patronage, Place, and Gender in the Medieval Church, edited by Virginia Chieffo Raguin and Sarah Stanbury, 141–160. New York: State University of New York Press, 2005. Freundel, Barry. Contemporary Orthodox Judaism’s Response to Modernity. Jersey City: KTAV Publishing House, 2004. Galor, Katharina. “Domestic Architecture in Roman and Byzantine Galilee and Golan.” Near Eastern Archaeology 66 (2003): 44–57. ———. “Zur Ehre Gottes und des Königs. Stadt und Tempel von Jerusalem.” In Herodes, König von Judäa. Baumeister, “Kindermörder,” Römerfreund, edited by Jürgen Zangenberg, 61–69. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2016. Galor, Katharina and Hanswulf Bloedhorn. The Archaeology of Jerusalem: From the Origins to the Ottomans. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013. Gharipour, Mohammad. Synagogues in the Islamic World. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017. Gonen, Rivka. Contested Holiness. Jewish, Muslim and Christian Perspectives on the Temple Mount. Jersey City: KTAV Publishing House, 2003. Goodenough, Erwin Ramsdell. Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, Vol. 1. New York: Pantheon Books, 1953. Grabbe, Lester. “Synagogues in Pre-70 Palestine: A RE-Assessment.” The Journal of Theological Studies. New Series 39, no. 2 (1988): 401–410. Grange, Sylvie. Cavaillon: une synagogue comme un musée. Paris: Monuments historiques, 1994. Grossman, Susan. “Women and the Jerusalem Temple.” In Daughters of the King: Women and the Synagogue. A Survey of History, Halakhah, and Contemporary Realities, edited by Susan Gorssman and Rivka Haut, 15–37. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992. Guigon, Catherine. “Les synagogues des ‘Juifs du Pape’.” L’Histoire 17 (2001). Hachlili, Rachel. Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeology in the Land of Israel. Leiden: Brill, 1988. ———. “The origins of the synagogue: a re-assessment.” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period 28, no. 1 (1997): 34–47. ———. Ancient Synagogues—Archaeology and Art: New Discoveries and Current Research. Handbook of Oriental Studies. Section 1, Ancient Near East, Vol. 105. Leiden: Brill, 2013. ———. The Menorah. Evolving into the Most Important Jewish Symbol. Leiden: Brill, 2018. Hayoun, Maurice-Ruben and Dominique Jarrassé. Les synagogues. Que sais-je? 3430. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1999.

Sacred Space  209 Herrmann, Klaus. “Jewish Confirmation Sermons in 19th-Century Germany.” In Preaching in Judaism and Christianity: Encounters and Developments from Biblical Times to Modernity (Studia Judaica), edited by Alexander Deeg, Walter Homolka, and HeinzGünther Schöttler, 91–112. Berlin: DeGruyter, 2008. Heuer, Ngaire Jennifer. The Family and the Nation: Gender and Citizenship in Revolutionary France, 1789–1830. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005. Hildenfinger, Paul. “Documents relatifs aux juifs d’Arles.” Revue des études juives 48 (1904): 48–81. Hochner, Nicole. “Imagining Esther in Early Modern France.” The Sixteenth Century Journal 41, no. 3 (2010): 757–787. Horowitz, Elliott. Reckless Rites. Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006. Jarassé, Dominique. Synagogues: une architecture de l’identité juive. Paris: Adam Biro, 2001. Jochnowitz, George. “…Who Made Me a Woman.” Commentary Magazine. Culture & Civilization (1981): 1–3. ———. “Shuadit: la langue juive de Provence.” Archives juives 14 (1987): 63–67. ———. “Judeo-Provencal in Southern France.” In Languages in Jewish Communities, Past and Present. Contributions to the Sociology of Language, edited by Benjamin Harry and Sarah Bunin Benor, 129–144. Berlin: DeGruyter, 2018. Jordan, William Chester. “The Jews and the Transition to Papal Rule in the ComtatVenaissin.” In Michael: On the History of the Jews in the Diaspora, Vol. 12, edited by Daniel Carpi, Yehuda Nini, and Shlomo Simonsohn, 213–232. Tel Aviv: Diaspora Research Institute, Tel Aviv University, 1991. Kahn, Salomon. “Thomas Platter et les juifs d’Avignon.” Revue des études juives 25, no. 49 (1892): 81–96. Kirchner, Paul Christian. Jüdisches Ceremoniel oder Beschreibungen derjenigen Gebräuche. Nürnberg: Veerlegts Peter Conrad Monath, 1726. Kohl, Heinrich and Carl Watzinger. Antike Synagogen in Galilaea. Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orientgesellschaft, Vol. 29. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs‘sche Buchhandlung, 1916. Koller, Aaron. Esther in Ancient Jewish Thought. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Kraeling, Carl Hermann. The Synagogue. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1956. Kraemer, Ross. “Jewish Women and Women’s Judaism(s) at the Beginning of Christianity.” In Women and Christian Origins, edited by Ross Kraemer and Mary Rose D’Angelo, 50–79. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Krauss, Samuel. Die galiläischen Synagogenruinen iii. Berlin: Veröffentlichung der Gesellschaft für Palästinaforschung, 1911. Krautheimer, Richard. Mittelalterliche Synagogen. Berlin: Frankfurter Verlags-Anstalt, 1927. Krinsky, Carol Herselle. Synagogues of Europe: Architecture, History, Meaning. Mineola: Dover Publications, 1996. Kukla, Elliot and Reuben Zellman. “To Wear Is Human to Live—Divine: Parashat Ki Tetse (Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19).” In Torah Queeries: Weekly Commentaries on the Hebrew Bible, edited by Gregg Drinkwater, Joshua Lesser, and David Shneer, 254–258. New York: New York University Press, 2009. Lavedan, Pierre. “Les synagogues de Carpentras et de Cavaillon.” Congrès archéologique de France CXXI (1946): 307–311.

210  Sacred Space Le Roy, Emmanuel Ladurie et Francine-Dominique Liechtenhan. Le voyage de Thomas Platter: 1595–1599. Paris: Fayard, 2000. Legge, Jerome and Joya Misra. “Examining the Concept of Gender Role Ideology: Women in Traditional Jewish Worship.” Contemporary Jewry 19 (1998): 95–119. Levine, Israel. “The Nature and Origin of the Palestinian Synagogue Reconsidered.” The Journal of Biblical Literature 115, no. 3 (1996): 425–448. ———. The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000. Loeb, Isidore. “Les juifs de Carpentras sous le gouvernement pontifical.” Revue des études juives 12 (1886): 34–64, 161–235. Löw, Leopold. “Der synagogale Ritus.” Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 33 (1884): 364–374. Lunel, Armand. “Les synagogues comtadines.” L’Oeil 4 (1955): 14–17. ———. “The Jews of the South of France.” Hebrew Union College Annual 89 (2018): 1–158. Magen, Yitzhak. “Samaritan Synagogues.” Qadmoniot: A Journal for the Antiquities of Eretz-Israel and Bible Lands 3, no. 4 (1992): 66–90. [Hebrew]. Martène, Edmond, Ursin Durand, Nicolas de Bosc, and Balthasar Springer. Voyage littéraire de deux religieux bénédictins de la congrégation de St. Maur. Paris: Delaulne, 1717. Marx, Dalia. “The Missing Temple: The Status of the Temple in Jewish Culture Following Its Destruction.” European Judaism: A Journal for the New Europe 46, no. 2 (2013): 61–78. Meyer, Paul. “La reine Esther, tragédie provençale. Reproduction de l’édition unique de 1771, avec introduction et notes, par Ernest Sabatier.” Romania 6, no. 22 (1877): 300–302. Meyers, Carol L. “Was There a Seven-Branched Lampstand in Solomon’s Temple.” Biblical Archaeology Review 5, no. 5 (1979): 46–57. Millin, Aubin-Louis. Voyage dans les départements du midi de la France, Vol. 2. Paris: Imprimerie Impériale, 1807. Moulinas, René. “Les juifs d’Avignon et du Comtat et la Révolution Française.” Annales historiques de la Révolution française 48, no. 223 (1976): 121–160. ———. “Les vieilles synagogues d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin.” Archives juives 1 (1980): 14–26. ———. Les Juifs du Pape en France. Les communautés d’Avignon et du Comtat Venaissin aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Toulouse: Privat, 1981. ———. Les Juifs du Pape. Avignon et le Comtat Venaissin. Paris: Albin Michel, 1992. Oren, Drora. “Esther—The Jewish Queen of Persia.” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender 18, Iranian Jewish Women (2009): 140–165. Patai, Raphael. Encyclopedia of Jewish Folklore and Traditions, Vols. 1–2. New York: Routledge, 2013. Posener, Solomon. “The Social Life of the Jewish Communities in France in the 18th Century.” Jewish Social Studies 7, no. 3 (1945): 195–232. Prévot, Philippe. Histoire du ghetto d’Avignon: à travers la carrière des juifs d’Avignon. Avignon: Aubanel, 1975. Pummer, Reinhard. “Synagogues–Samaritan and Jewish: A New Look at Their Differentiating Characteristics.” In The Samaritans in Historical, Cultural and Linguistic Perspectives. Studia Judaica 110, Studia Samaritana 11, edited by Jan Dusek, 51–74. Berlin: DeGruyter, 2018.

Sacred Space  211 Rahmani, Levi Yizhaq. “Stone Synagogue chairs: Their Identification, Use and Significance.” Israel Exploration Journal 40, no. 2/3 (1990): 192–214. Romney Wegner, Judith. “‘Coming Before the Lord’: The Exclusion of Women from the Public Domain of the Israelite Priestly Cult.” In The Book of Leviticus: Composition and Reception. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum, edited by Rolf Rendtorff and Robert A. Kugler, 451–465. Leiden: Brill, 2003. Roth, Cecil. “Jüdische Bräuche im Comtat Venaissin.” Menorah 4 (1927): 256–260. ———. “Sumptuary Laws of the Community of Carpentras.” The Jewish Quarterly Review 18, no. 4 (1928): 357–383. Rubens, Alfred. A Jewish Iconography. London: Nonpareil, 1981. Safrai, Hannah. “Women and the Ancient Synagogue.” In Daughters of the King: Women and the Synagogue. A Survey of History, Halakhah, and Contemporary Realities, edited by Susan Grossman and Rivka Haut, 39–49. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1992. Safrai, Shmuell. “Was There a Women’s Gallery in the Ancient Synagogue?” Tarbiz 32 (1963): 329–330. [Hebrew]. Safrai, Ze’ev. “Dukhan, Aron and Teva: How Was the Ancient Synagogue Furnished?” In Ancient Synagogues in Israel: Third—Seventh Century C.E., BAR International Series, edited by Rachel Hachlili, 78–79. Oxford: BAR, 1989. ———. “From the Synagogue to ‘Little Temple’.” In Proceedings of the World Congress of Jewish Studies. Division B, Vol. 2: The History of the Jewish People, 23–28. Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1989. Sawyer, Deborah F. “Queen Vashti's ‘No’ and What It Can Tell Us About Gender Tools In Biblical Narrative.” In The Bible and Feminism: Remapping the Field, edited by Yvonne Sherwood, 343–354. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Schechner, Richard. Between Theatre and Anthropology. Philadelphia: Pennsylvania University Press, 1985. Showalter, Jr. English. “Writing off the Stage, Women Authors and Eighteenth-Century Theater.” Yale French Studies, 1988, no. 75, The Politics of Tradition: Placing Women in French Literature (1988): 95–111. Spero, Shubert. “From Tabernacle (Mishkan) and Temple (Mikdash) to Synagogue (Bet Knesset).” Tradition: A Journal of Orthodox Jewish Thought 38, no. 3 (2004): 60–85. Spigel, Chad. “Reconsidering the Question of Separate Seating in Ancient Synagogues.” Journal of Jewish Studies 63, no. 1 (2012): 62–83. Sukenik, Eleazar Lipa. Ancient Synagogues in Palestine and Greece. British Academy London: The Schweich Lectures, Vol. 23. London: British Academy, 1934. Szajkowski, Zosa. “The Decline and Fall of Provençal Jewry.” Jewish Social Studies 6, no. 1 (1944): 31–54. ———. “Synagogues during the French Revolution, 1789–1800.” Jewish Social Studies 20, no. 4 (1958): 215–231. Taitz, Emily. “Women’s Voices, Women’s Prayers: Women in the European Synagogues of the Middle Ages.” In Daughters of the King: Women and the Synagogue. A Survey of History, Halakhah, and Contemporary Realities, edited by Susan Grossman and Rivka S. Haut, 59–71. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1992. Theis, Valérie. “Jean XXII et l’expulsion des juifs du Comtat Venaissin.” Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales 67, no. 1 (2012): 41–77. Townsend, John T. “Creation and Gender in Rabbinic Literature.” Encounter 55, no. 1 (1994): 9–12. Turner, Victor. The Anthropology of Performance. New York: PAJ Publications: A Journal of Performance and Art, 1988.

212  Sacred Space Vandebrande, M. and August Fryderyk Moszyński. La Ronde de Jacquemart. Les carnets du voyageur. Avignon: Librarie contemporaine, 1984. Weissler, Chava. “Women’s Studies and Women’s Prayers: Reconstructing the Religious History of Ashkenazic Women.” Jewish Social Studies (New Series) 1, no. 2 (1995): 28–47. Wigoder, Geoffrey. The Story of the Synagogue. A Diaspora Museum Book. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1986. Wischnitzer, Rachel. The Architecture of the European Synagogue. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1964. Zaeske, Susan. “Unveiling Esther as a Pragmatic Radial Rhetoric.” Philosophy & Rhetoric 33, no. 3 (2000): 193–220.

4

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film

Cinematic Spaces In the opening scene of Kadosh (1999), Meir, a bearded middle-aged man and a lead character in the drama, wakes up and recites Shacharit, the regular morning prayer. As he turns his back to the camera, with only his tzitzit katan (a fringed garment traditionally worn under or over one’s clothing by Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox men) visible, his upper body sways back and forth, in tune with both the melancholic klezmer background music and the routine words of the prayer: “Blessed is our Eternal God who has not created me a woman.” The story is set in Mea Shearim, the Haredi (ultra-Orthodox Jewish) Quarter of Jerusalem, engaging the themes of love, matrimony, and broken hearts and lives, as film director Amos Gitai highlights the patriarchal tenets that control women’s bodies and sexualities, depriving women of much of their agency. Though in a happy relationship of love and tenderness with his wife Rifka (Figure 4.1), Meir divorces her. As they have remained childless for ten years, rabbinic law (Mishnah Yevamot 6:5b–66a)—which grounds their lives as well as those of the larger Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox communities—commands this action. To fulfill his duties of procreation, Meir remarries to a cousin, a decision that causes him great distress, and Rifka’s withdrawal into depression. The movie concludes with her death.1 While the ultra-Orthodox population currently makes up only about 12 percent of Israel’s citizens, and is thus considered a marginal community, the foundational laws that define marriage and divorce in Haredi society are not inconsequential with regard to the majority of Israeli citizens.2 Nearly half of Israel’s Jews identify as secular, yet the country’s rabbinical court, which operates according to Jewish Orthodox halakhah, has retained exclusive jurisdiction over family law, including matrimony and divorce. The guiding principles of these regulations, shaped by biblical tenets and rabbinic interpretations, define married women as the property of their husbands. And it is only husbands who have the sole authority to end this bond, in life or through their death.3 Though Israel was established on secular Zionist principles, Orthodox rabbinical authority defines the country’s religious demography. This has been achieved by limiting intermarriages, by assuring continuity through matrilineal descent, and by maintaining the status quo of gender and power relations between women and DOI:  10.4324/9781003440499-5

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Figure 4.1  Kadosh. Meir’s father advises him that “a barren woman is no woman.” Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

men. These measures have been key to the preservation and indeed expansion of the Jewish population, effectively consolidating the Jewish character of the State of Israel. Despite the steady increase of Israel’s religious and ultra-religious Jewish population, the control of the Orthodox rabbinate on marriage, and especially divorce, has led to much discontent, criticism, division, and indeed active protests. Not surprisingly, negative views are frequently voiced by the secular factions of society. More complex, however, are the demands made for change and reform voiced by various religious communities, the growing Reform and Conservative movements, as well as, increasingly, the newly activist Orthodox feminist groups and organizations. Cinematic explorations of marriage and divorce, reflecting on Israel’s varied social fabric, capture the complexity of people’s psychological and emotional depths, specifically as they explore gender norms and deviations. As opposed to films that end with the wedding trope, frequently the ultimate happy ending, few films feature divorce ceremonies. Yet the difficulties and traumas associated with marital separation, often countered by stories of love, sex, and passion, have also been used as a fascinating screen subject. Frequently given over to shallow romances, comedies, and dramas, a vastly growing number of fiction and documentary films overtly portray the complicated intersections of gender, religion, ethnicity, and sexuality as they engage Jewish marriage and divorce traditions and laws.4 To assess women’s agency as well as the agency of film in the context of Israeli culture and society, I identify three dimensions of cinematic space, together contributing to the shaping of Israeli identity. The first is the space inside the film (or the film’s fourth wall, the imaginary boundary that separates the story from the real world); second, the audience’s interiority (their emotional and cognitive perception

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  215 of and response to the film); and third, the physical or virtual space between the screen and the viewer (in cinematic, televised, or cyber contexts). Israeliness on Screen Rather than capturing or reflecting realities, facts, or events on screen, Israeli film—whether documentary, fiction, docufiction, animation, TV, or online screening—serves as an active agent that can in fact contribute to shaping social movements and identity itself.5 And while the context of the movie theater or other spaces of public screenings may physically contain the community, the more private settings of TV or online viewings insure that films can reach wider audiences across national and international boundaries. In both cases, the ability to engage the emotional complexities of Israeli identity politics in film, revealing the interrelated dynamics of law, love, and sexuality, is highly effective, especially in comparison with the visual and material culture I have examined in previous chapters. Thus, recognizing the agency of film and its potential to influence, reinforce, or challenge Israeli identity will assist me here in examining various gender norms and deviations as well as religious beliefs and practices, specifically as they relate to Jewish marriage and divorce legislation.6 Framing this exploration is the question of Jewish “Israeliness” and the tension between collective identity and otherness. The history of Israeli cinema has been generally understood to develop from its depictions of early Zionist ideology of a Jewish collective identity. Over time it moved to a more critical understanding of Israeli identity, with portrayals that allow for increased individuality and difference.7 The current analysis instead seeks Israeliness as a constant and continued struggle to balance a collective identity with an increasingly diverse population—ethnically, religiously, politically, and sexually. With this understanding in mind, I would like to argue that the aspiration toward a unified Jewish Israeliness, the product of a successful melting pot, has never been entirely abandoned, but rather has shifted from a largely secular frame of reference to an increasingly religious one. Film representations of Jewish women and men, their relationships, and their stories, have clearly evolved and now offer a broader spectrum of possibilities, many incorporating themes and characters that engage Orthodoxy and ultra-Orthodoxy. Despite the continued effort to negotiate past and present, the personal with the collective, the secular with the religious, and female agency with patriarchy, the questions around a distinctive Jewish Israeliness are never quite resolved, neither on screen (in public and private settings) nor in real life. Religion-Nation Nexus One of the great contradictions of the State of Israel is that despite the fact that there is no official religion, there is no clear separation between religion and the state. Conceived as the national homeland for the Jewish people, the character of the state as Jewish is enshrined in numerous national policies, most notably the Law of Return, which was passed by the Knesset on July 5, 1950, and more recently on July 1, 2018, by the Nation-State Bill, as the nation-state of the Jewish

216  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film people.8 This law, through continued emigration of Jews or descendants of Jews, was designed, among other goals, to build and control the demographic majority of the country’s Jewish population in relation to its non-Jewish, primarily Muslim and to a lesser extent Christian population. Though Zionist thought and Israeli policies and legislations, specifically during the early years after the state’s establishment, were based on a largely secular ideology, the commitment to maintain the country as a home for Jews has remained central to Israeli collective consciousness. The question of a Jewish-Israeli identity—whether loosely based on mostly cultural traditions or strictly linked to biblical and rabbinic laws and ways of life—has indeed provided the foundational anchor for the country’s existence as a geopolitical entity. And in this regard, relegating the control of marriage, and thus descent, to a religious rather than a secular body of authority did not meet much objection from politicians or within civil society. As a result, since the early years of the establishment of Israel, questions of marriage and divorce among Jews who are citizens of, or residents in, the state have been under the exclusive jurisdiction of the rabbinic courts, which have operated according to Jewish law. Despite the great tension among the various streams of Judaism (ultra-Orthodox, national-religious, Conservative, Reform), not to mention the frictions between secular and religious populations, it is Orthodox Judaism that has controlled these issues related to national religious identity and continuity.9 Based on biblical roots and Talmudic and rabbinic discussions, Jewish marriage and divorce from antiquity through the present, while adjusting to different historical and social contexts over the centuries, has remained relatively persistent with regard to gendered roles—especially in the recent past, in the context of modern Israeli legislation.10 Shaped by patriarchal conventions, the obligations, rights, roles, and prerogatives of women and men in these texts are clearly differentiated and unambiguously hierarchical, placing men in a position of power with regard to women. Issues surrounding matrimony in contemporary Israel are symptomatic of these legal distinctions. Reflecting on the significance of marriage, rabbinic discussions comment, for instance, on a passage in the biblical book of Genesis 2:18 where it is written, “It is not good for man to be alone.” Genesis Rabbah 17:2, thus recommends that, “He who has no wife dwells without good, without help, without joy, without blessing, and without atonement.” The benefits for women too, are frequently stressed in Talmudic sources, including in BT Yebamot 113a, where we read, “More than the man desires to marry does the woman desire to be taken in marriage.”11 Without claiming a direct link between the centrality of marriage in biblical and Talmudic texts and the extremely complex, diverse, and dynamic matters of family structures within Israeli society, one cannot but note that Israel is a relatively conservative and family-oriented society, and that getting married has been an “almost universal norm among Israelis.”12 From the perspective of Jewish law, as discussed in great length in rabbinic sources, the woman is acquired by the man, a sort of purchase that is not unlike other legal forms of acquisition.13 Parallels between Talmudic discussions on modes of betrothal and the manner of buying slaves or real estate are apparent and have

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  217 been analyzed by several generations of scholars long before gender and feminist inquiries entered the field of Jewish law.14 Since men are defined in these texts as the owners of their property, only they—neither the courts nor the women—have the right to dispose of their possessions or to legally dissolve the marriage through divorce, a situation that has shaped Jewish marriage since antiquity. Since the Roman period, marriage and divorce have consistently been framed by various financial and other material obligations that fall upon the husband. These economic responsibilities are stipulated contractually in the ketubah.15 Just like this official signed agreement—which existed at least from the period of the Tannaim—numerous other customs and laws related to marriage and divorce have persisted and are still commonly applied in Israel today. While a number of minor changes or adaptations have been implemented—among others during the Geonic period (586–1038 CE), and later under Rabbenu Gershon, leader of European Jewry at the end of the tenth and beginning of the eleventh century, or again, under Maimonides, a medieval Sephardic philosopher who lived in the twelfth century— the legal stipulations of Orthodox law as applied by the rabbinic courts in Israel today, have remained surprisingly close to the original Talmudic laws.16 Beyond interpretations of Jewish law in various historical contexts, contemporary legislation in Israel has been shaped by other factors as well. Most legal codes in Israel are rooted in Western, secular, and liberal principles. This, however, is not the case for matters of personal status and family law, which fall under the jurisdiction of the religious courts. Since the Ottoman period, defined by the millet system (the institutional framework governing relations between the Ottoman state and its large and varied non-Muslim population), family matters were considered religious in nature. All domestic concerns or problems were dealt with by the various religious communities’ own tribunals (mostly Jewish and Christian).17 The British, who ruled Palestine between 1922 and 1948, and later the Jewish founders of the State of Israel, largely adopted the Ottoman arrangement with regard to family issues with only minor changes.18 This arguably flexible structure governing family matters—both codified in the Status Quo Agreement and in the Declaration of the Establishment of the State of Israel—aspires to grant freedom of religion. In reality, however, it marginalizes, excludes, and discriminates against those who are either secular or those who do not fall under the recognized religious groups and courts. Furthermore, the entire system of religious institutions in Israel is overseen by the Orthodox Jewish rabbinate, a body that only marginally accommodates Israel’s pluralistic society. Indeed, rabbinic courts have the authority to adjudicate the marriage and divorce of all Jews, including secular Jews and those belonging to non-Orthodox denominations. Among the regulations that defy more liberal views of Judaism, beyond the actual marriage and divorce ceremonies (imposed even on couples who marry overseas in civic ceremonies), are the prohibition on marriage between a divorcee and a Cohen (based on a biblical tradition Cohens are considered to be descendants of Aaron, the High Priest in the Jerusalem Temple), between a Jew and a non-Jew, between a mamzer (literally bastard, referencing a child born of a forbidden sexual union) and one who is not, and between same-sex couples. A significant population

218  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film in Israel is thus excluded from the right to marry whom they want, including individuals and communities who are not affiliated with a recognized religious group or whose Jewishness is contested.19 Despite the Supreme Court’s ruling established after the groundbreaking 1963 Funk-Schlesinger case, which stipulates that couples who marry abroad have to be registered in Israel, the only form of matrimony that has remained legally recognized in the country has been religious marriage—and divorce.20 In the absence of official civil marriage options in Israel, there is a common practice among Israelis who choose to bypass the civil marriage ban by traveling abroad to places that facilitate civil marriages for nonresidents and noncitizens. Most Israelis who choose this option get married in Cyprus. A growing number prefer Prague, as well as various other European or North American destinations. These choices, however, are only available to those who can afford them.21 Yet, the number of Israelis who opt for a civil marriage increases steadily. By 2013 the figures were ten times as high as during the preceding decade. Noteworthy is that the vast majority of Israelis who do opt to get married abroad are actually recognized as Jewish according to Israeli law, and thus the choice to evade marrying according to the Rabbinical precepts does not necessarily reflect their identity as Jews.22 A survey conducted in 2009 by the Israel Central Bureau of Statistics showed that 62 percent of Israeli Jews over the age of 20 believe that civil marriage should be allowed in Israel. Fifty-seven percent felt that Israel ought to institute a separation between state and religion.23 A 2011 survey, however, found that only 44 percent of Israeli Jews believe that, in case of a conflict, democracy should override Judaism. According to the same study, only 51 percent of Israeli Jews support civil marriage, while 80 percent feel that “it is ‘important’ or ‘very important’ to be married by a rabbi.”24 In other words, despite the fact that more than half of Israel’s Jewish population would like to see more tolerance toward a civil marriage option, the great majority still prefer to be married in a religious ceremony. Various movements and organizations that advocate change in the current legal structure of marriage and divorce as overseen and controlled by Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox rabbis have been established. Among them is Israel Hofsheet (literally, a Free Israel), founded in 2009, which has led many campaigns that aim to change the current Orthodox hegemony. In their view, Freedom of marriage should be available to those who do not wish to marry, for a variety of reasons, through the rabbinate, as well as for those who cannot marry through the rabbinate: different streams of Judaism, LGBTs, people without religion, and those who are disqualified, for various reasons, from marrying.25 There have been numerous formal and informal proposals for recognizing civil marriages and divorces in Israel over the past decades. None, however, has been successful.26 While the political structure certainly plays a role in the power that Israel’s Orthodox rabbinate holds—often even in the face of the Supreme Court— their invincible hold on matters of matrimony and descent may be indicative of a

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  219 unifying Israeli collective consciousness, or rather unconsciousness. In the words of Zvi Triger “[P]erhaps Israeli Jews do not want to change the system [of marriage and divorce] because they believe that the religion-nation nexus is too important and that, despite their own secularism, Orthodox Judaism has come to be a natural and taken-for-granted component of the Jewish-Israeli identity.”27 Genres and Semiotics While Jewish wedding scenes and marriage plots abound in Israeli cinema, separations and divorces are less commonly featured on screen. Both themes, weddings and divorces, are present in various film categories and genres. The more critical and in-depth explorations, especially those that engage the implications of prevalent gender inequalities in Jewish matrimony and divorce customs as framed by religious rules and legislation, did not appear until the early 1990s. A number of select examples, organized according to three themes or angles of inquiry, highlight the general trend of this and other cultural media that engage with the country’s diverse and changing socio-religious landscape. These themes are: 1) Ethnicity; 2) Secularism; 3) Religion. As I move chronologically from cinematic representations of the New Jew(ess)—indicative of the early years following the establishment of the state of Israel—to more recent interpretations of what I will define here as the Newer Jew(ess), I will explicate how a predominantly secular portrayal of the Israeli Jewish identity on screen has made room for a nearly endless variety of portraits, with an increasing presence of religious themes and characters.28 And while perhaps counterintuitively, giving more weight to pious figures and plots does not appear to diminish the agency of women. Instead, it is the cinematic space as designed by the director that defines how the audience, including film critics and scholars, understand and experience the apparent or implicated tensions between patriarchy and women’s agency. A starting point in an appreciation of how film has featured and shaped the changing identity of Israelis—specifically with regard to the salient portrayal of men and masculinity—is the figure of the sabra (a native-born Israeli), which film scholar Rachel Harris describes in the following terms: Cinema consecrated the image of the New Jew, exemplified in themes of war, heroism, and masculinity: a physically strong, ideologically motivated Zionist whose very essence served as a rejection of an internalized conception of European Jewry that was built on anti-Semitic tropes. Rooted in the new land, this image of the sabra was characterized by native proficiency in Hebrew, intimate acquaintance with the land of Israel, and embodiment of the Labor Zionist ethos and became the most iconic representation of the social and political values of the new country. These themes were particularly evident in Israeli filmmaking, whose masculine trajectory and central male protagonists had already been shaped by the early Zionist documentaries and the handful of films made during the 1930s, almost all of which focused on militarism and agrarian labor.29

220  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film Perhaps even more than cinematic explorations, which have clearly marginalized women, research on gender in Israeli film has emerged relatively late, with feminist explorations becoming the focus only in the mid-1990s, and the first book-length study on women not published until 2017.30 Queer subjects, primarily focused on homosexual relations between men with nearly no interest in lesbian themes, were introduced into Israeli film as early as the 1980s. Scholarly attention to queer and feminist film theory, however, remains limited to a modest group of academics.31 While Jewish marriage and divorce rarely play a role in them, love stories between queer Israelis and Palestinians, a common trope throughout the history of Israeli film, are usually embedded in trauma, betrayal, or even death, but rarely examine the religious or legal implications of these relationships.32 Whereas much of the early melting pot egalitarianism projected an image of the Mizrahi as inferior and primitive and women as marginal, in recent decades, most of these biases have been engaged, criticized, and deconstructed on screen and beyond, including in Israeli literary and cultural production more generally.33 The ethnic diversity and the significant presence of women among film directors— not to mention the changing sociopolitical and religious landscape—have certainly contributed to the radical transformation of the Israeli imaginary, incarnated in the cinematic shift from the mostly secular New Jew(ess) to a multitude of incarnations of the Newer Jew(ess), among which religious themes and characters take on an increasingly dominant platform. As I argue, however, the increased pluralism of Israeli identities in reality as well as in representation, has continuously done battle with the country’s inherent conflict between being Jewish and aspiring to be democratic, a factor that defines Israel’s persistent ethnoreligious hierarchies and the resulting discriminations. Though film has contributed to bringing important racial, gender, and sexual discriminations in Israeli society to the fore, cinema’s ability to truly impact the legal structure of the country’s marriage and divorce procedures has been marginal. And despite the increasing presence and visibility of women in the world of cinema, most films, especially those that achieve commercial success and wide distribution, continue to be directed by men. Though not all women directors have a feminist outlook, and vice versa, not all men lack a critical and sensitive perspective when it comes to portraying societal gender inequalities and women’s compromised standing in Jewish matrimony. In most cases, when women are in control of the artistic and dramatic aspects and the screenplay, the female protagonists and supporting characters tend to be portrayed with more agency. A discussion of early Israeli cinema and the quintessential representation of Ashkenazi and Mizrahi Jews cannot take place without introducing Efraim Kishon’s Sallah Shabati (1964).34 As the archetype of the Bourekas genre (named after a Middle Eastern filo pastry), prevalent from the late 1960s through the 1980s, these films, mostly framed as comedies though with some melodramas, were based on ethnic stereotypes. Though Sallah Shabati was perceived in a negative light by countless scholars, the film gained tremendous popularity and success (drawing almost 1.3 million spectators), both locally in Israel and in the United States. It won the Hollywood Foreign Press Association’s Gold Globe Award as Best Foreign

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  221 Film; it opened and closed the Berlin Film Festival; and it won best actor and best screenplay at the San Francisco International Film Festival.35 The story focuses on Sallah, a newly immigrated Jew of undetermined origin, who thus represents the quintessential Eastern Jew (“pan-Oriental” in Shohat’s wording, or the “Ur Mizrahi” as described by Yaron Peleg).36 He is portrayed as kind, lazy, simple-minded, and sexist. The plot revolves around his efforts to organize suitable housing for his family (after being assigned to a ma’abera, a transit camp) and to arrange appropriate marriages for his children. Very early, in the opening scene, we are introduced to two kinds of Jewish immigrants who are shown arriving at the airport in Tel Aviv: an elegantly dressed and seemingly well-off Ashkenazi couple from America, who are carrying a number of suitcases. Behind them follows Sallah Shabati with his wife, seven children, and several others who may be members of his family. Their shabby clothing and overall appearance suggest a modest, if not uncivilized, background. As soon as they step off the plane, Sallah, leading the members of his clan, kneels down, kisses the ground, and recites a blessing.37 Other than hinting at various shortcomings and failings of the “sacred values of socialist Zionism—the ‘Religion of Labor’ [dath ha’avodah],” as Judd Ne’emann has argued, the movie highlights the ethnic tension between Ashkenazi and Mizrahi Jews.38 In other words, the film implicitly criticizes the failed socialist values of solidarity and collectivist idealism by exposing and ridiculing the kibbutz members’ evident hierarchical, racist, and materialist views. Much of the humor, however, plays on the clownish and seemingly brainless behavior of Sallah. This clearly biased portrayal is particularly problematic given the fact that the director (Ephraim Kishon), the producer (Menahem Golan), and the main actor (Haim Topol) are all from Ashkenazi backgrounds, a partiality common in most Bourekas films.39 As we follow the plot through Sallah’s various tribulations and trials, we reach a happy ending: in addition to being granted the right to move into a shikun (social housing tenement), Sallah’s daughter, Habbubah (Geula Noni), marries Sigi (Arik Einstein), her boyfriend from the kibbutz; and his son, Shimon (Shaike Levi,) marries the social worker, Bathsheva (Gila Almagor), both Ashkenazim. The two main tropes apparent in Sallah Shabati—the validation of the Mizrahim as legitimate Jews as well as their integration into the Jewish-Israeli family through marriage—are found in numerous Bourekas movies.40 As Yaron Peleg explains: Since much of the Jewish world in Muslim countries was unknown to Ashkenazi before the Holocaust, Mizrahi Jews appeared almost “un-Jewish” to their Ashkenazi brethren when they arrived en-mass in Israel after 1948. The repeated references in Bourekas films to non-Ashkenazi Jewish traditions and folklore were also aimed at conferring Mizrahim, who were often negatively compared to Arabs, literally as Jews. The phrase “We’re all Jews” is frequently heard in the films and reveals one of the genre’s most important agendas: the construction of a Jewish, Israeli nationality that includes Mizrahi as a legitimate component.41

222  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film The social integration of the Mizrahi into the mainstream Ashkenazi sociopolitical landscape in Sallah Shabati and other Bourekas films is commonly achieved and sealed through intermarriage. This kind of interethnic union is also the focus of Kazablan, first performed as a play in 1954, and later adapted on screen as a musical comedy by Menahem Golan (in 1973). The story is set in Jaffa in the 1960s and concerns the love of Yosef Siman-Tov (Yoram Gaon)—known as Kaza after Casablanca, his birth city—for Rachel (Efrat Lavi), his neighbor, who is of Polish descent. While her father and stepmother object, primarily because of his Mizrahi background—illustrated through his unemployment, his alleged criminality, and his overall demeanor—the film ends with their union.42 The central messages of these early Bourekas films are unambiguous. Firstly, immigrants from Arab countries should be recognized as legitimate Jews. And second, despite their “primitive” backgrounds, the gaps between Mizrahi Jews and Ashkenazi can be overcome by marriage. Mizrahis’ distinct physical traits, including body posture, gestures, and even skin color; facial features and expressions; language; and finally their traditional values, superstitions, and beliefs that can be erased within a generation to create a new racial unity, embodied in the melting pot ideology of the Jewish nation. In both Sallah Shabati and Kazablan, as in a number of other Bourekas films, the unions of the various mixed couples surprisingly lack romantic or emotional depth. When social worker Bathsheva and Shimon share the news of their intended marriage with Sallah and his wife, the two young “lovers” stand rigidly side by side with their hands in their pants pockets. When Haboubah tells Sigi that a cab driver offered 800 liras to marry her, Sigi somberly responds that he has no money. Haboubah, like Sigi, rather than physically and visually demonstrating her feelings of affection, simply states “You don’t love me … please buy me from my father.” As Sallah and even the kibbutz members discuss the prospect of these two interethnic marriages (Figure 4.2), it is exclusively the financial burdens and interests of the family, indeed of the entire kibbutz community, that are considered and negotiated. In Kazablan a similar absence of erotic chemistry is apparent. For instance, when Kaza sees Rachel for the first time, she appears behind a barred window (Figure 4.3). As one of Kaza’s friends explains to her disturbed father and stepmother, the purpose of their stopping and standing below their home’s windows, it is “to marry your daughter [Rachel]. That’s what he [Kaza] wants,” turning to Kaza and warning him, “She’s not the type for someone like you.” Another friend chimes in and clarifies that, “The Polish princess is not made for a ‘Schwarze’ [Yiddish, a Black, standing for Jews of Middle Eastern background].” The ethnic hierarchy is captured by the camera, which emphasizes the superior level of Rachel’s home, specifically in relation to the inferior position of Kaza and his gang, whom the viewer sees from above (Figure 4.4). The window bars represent the barrier that separates the two ethnic populations, ultimately broken by Rachel’s and Kaza’s union. Semiotically and visually, the cultural difference is thus striking, a gap the plot, however, resolves to overcome.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  223

Figure 4.2  Sallah Shabati. Sallah negotiates the price for his daughter Habbubah for her marriage with the Kibbutznik Sigi. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Figure 4.3  Kazablan. Rachel appears behind window bars, looking at Kaza and his buddies. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Their determination to stay together, in spite of the numerous hurdles, is not embedded in any sort of emotional expression of love or passion. In sum, the format of comedy and musical seem to make up for the striking lack of erotic chemistry, and at the same time highlights the ideological purpose of the communal interest: depicting the New Jew(ess) and erasing the Oriental.

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Figure 4.4  Kazablan. Rachel’s father and stepmother are looking down at Kaza, who is interested in Rachel. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Films that engage Israel’s ethnic diversity and the clashes between a primarily privileged Ashkenazi minority and a largely disadvantaged Mizrahi majority, after the heyday of the Bourekas genre, have been given different names: New Mizrchi Cinema, Mizrahi Identity Films, Post-Bourekas, and Neo-Bourekas.43 These different categories indicate the complexity of portrayals of identity politics of second-, third-, and fourth-generation Israelis, who have inherited, internalized, but also clearly rejected various traditions and stereotypes. The explorations on screen can, for the viewer, raise countless possibilities of subversion by negotiating alterity or otherness, along with the continued aspiration for a unified Israeliness rooted in Ashkenazification.44 As opposed to Bourekas films, which use the wedding trope as a symbolic, artificial, and mostly unrealistic representation of bridging ethnic diversity and conflict through intermarriage, the more recent exploration of Israel’s ethnic and racial divides in film, mostly since the 1990s, engage a multitude of individualized stories and portrayals that ultimately highlight the failure to project a single monolithic Jewish-Israeli character. The effort to replace the imaginary New Jew(ess) with a Newer Jew(ess) only confirms that the very notion of a quintessential Jewish Israeliness is doomed to accommodate an ever-growing diversity that defines the social fabric of Israel’s diverse populations. The country’s composite society is thus reflected in multiple imaginaries, within the realm of cinema, TV, and online representations, as much as within the context of the actual sociocultural, religious, and political landscape. It was Rami Kimchi who first proposed to define as neo- or post-Bourekas a series of more recent Israeli films that continue to integrate stereotypical ethnic markers known from the original Bourekas movies, a concept further developed by Yaron Shemer.45 Though there is general agreement that the neo-Bourekas films tend to repeat certain clichés and stereotypes from earlier movies, it does not seem

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  225 to me correct that the newer versions “offer a denouement where the ethnic schism is deemed a matter of the past.”46 My reading, instead, is that the backwardness and misery of the Mizrahi communities has established itself as a recognizable and persistent trope in film language and that their customs and conditions signify a permanent entrapment and a sort of trauma that has left visible and permanent scars. Marriage, or the prospect of marriage, rather than solving the ethnic divide in these films, reinforces blatant racial hierarchies. Illustrating the collapsed model of the previously advocated model of interethnic marriage, the 1994 comedy-drama by Savi Gabizon, Lovesick on Nana Street, recounts the touching story of Victor (Moshe Ivgy), a bachelor who runs a pirate cable TV station in his distressed neighborhood.47 He falls madly in love with Michaela (Avigail Ariely), a (fake) blonde Ashkenazi actress (Figure 4.5), who moves into the neighborhood with her boyfriend (Asher Atias), a newly hired drama teacher. Victor’s obsession with her leads him to overstep civil boundaries, to resort to self-harmful behavior, and, ultimately, to wind up in a psychiatric hospital. There, he encounters Levana (Hanna Azoulay Hasfari)—her name ironically meaning “white” in Hebrew—with whom he develops a sexual relationship (Figure 4.6) that ultimately frees him from his unrealistic obsession with Michaela. Both Victor and Levana seem to respectively aspire to improbable unions, Victor with Michaela, and Levana with an imaginary husband with whom she has an imaginary son. Victor’s persistence in courting Michaela—featuring him at first as endearing, ridiculous, and stubborn, and increasingly as preposterous, outrageous, indeed crazy, and violent—expresses the hopelessness of the situation. Why would this dark-skinned, awkward middle-aged man, with Mizrahi mannerisms and way of speaking, charm a pretty blonde Ashkenazi woman, clearly more attractive, more educated, younger, not to mention engaged to a tall and handsome young

Figure 4.5  Lovesick on Nana Street. Victor is flirting with Michaela. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

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Figure 4.6  Lovesick on Nana Street. Victor and Levana are lovers. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Ashkenazi man? Levana’s aspirations seem even further from reality than Victor’s. At some point, we see her, perhaps for the first and only time in the film, as a woman who is well put-together; the way she is made up and the way she speaks make her—if only for a brief moment—seem lucid and reasonable. She is conservatively dressed, with a button-down shirt and knee-length skirt; a little elegant hat crowns her face, plainly visible, as her hair is collected behind her neck. She attempts to leave the premises, explaining to the Arab guard that her husband and son were held up at an intersection and require guidance to locate her. As she is prevented from leaving, she tries to run away but is caught by two male hospital staff members, one of them the guard. At this point, her speech becomes senseless and her screams confirm her lunacy. Perhaps her imaginary husband is Ashkenazi as well, suggesting the insurmountable nature of Israel’s ethnic divide. Lovesick portrays Victor and Levana as striving to break the boundaries of their inferior Mizrahi background. But their romantic desires remain within the realm of foolishness; indeed, mental illness. Both are visibly trapped within their Mizrahi bodies and minds and locked away with other mentally ill individuals. While suffused with depictions of the tender emotions of compassion and sadness, occasional comical scenes and dialogues juxtaposed with various Mizrahi and Ashkenazi cultural and linguistic references recall several early Bourekas tropes. Yet Lovesick on Nana Street not only fails to bridge the ethnic gap through marriage. It instead highlights the impracticality of an interethnic union and the emotional—indeed, psychiatric— consequences of the attempt to bridge insurmountable differences. The narrative concludes with Victor, shortly after his release from the psychiatric hospital, climbing over the institution’s fence, and imploring the guard to convince the doctors to readmit him. The final scene shows him joining Levana in bed in

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  227 the hospital ward. As he kisses her, he tenderly repeats over and over, “I love you, Levana, I love you.” Their romance is clearly bound by mental illness and ethnic marginalization. But unlike Victor, who chooses to return to the hospital of his own free will, Levana lacks this choice and agency. Given the confined locus of their relationship, a locked institution signaling the restrained status of Mizrahi populations, their mutual affection and attraction can hardly lead to a legitimate marriage, neither between the two lovers, and even less so with the ethnic other. This reading of Lovesick highlights the irredeemable sadness, the sense of an impasse, and the persistent gap between Mizrahim and Ashkenazim, as well as individuals’ difficulties to fit into the chaotic jumble of Israel’s various ethnic communities. Though Gabizon’s highly critical portrayal of Israel’s considerable ethnic gaps is free of the problematic stereotyping prevalent in the early Bourekas films, such as Kishon’s Sallah Shabati and Golan’s Kazablan, all three films fail at providing a truly intersectional perspective, featuring women as mostly deprived of agency. In Lovesick, Victor, in contrast to Levana, can choose between life either outside of a mental institution or within. In Sallah Shabati, Habbubah or Batsheva, or Rachel in Kazablan, do not carry the agency to decide whether they can marry the men they love. The decision, in the former movie, lies within the community, in Kazablan with Kaza’s ability to prove himself as worthy, innocent of the crime he was accused of. In other words, Kishon, Golan, and Gabizon all deprive their female protagonists of the agency to decisively impact the outcome of their romantic relationships. It is always the men who take the wives. The great majority of Israeli films, from their earliest history to the present, focus on secular portrayals. Wedding scenes tend to be cheerful celebrations displaying generic, mostly shallow emotional expressions—with the narrative frequently concluding with the “happily ever after” trope. References to or explorations of divorce situations or ceremonies, instead, are usually shown with more psychological and narrative depth. This is partially linked to the fact that the rabbinical court not only has a hold on couples who identify as religious, but even on those who are secular and marry in non-Orthodox or secular ceremonies. Regarding presentations of actual wedding scenes, an almost endless variety of musical, aesthetic, and visual interpretations exist in Israeli romance, drama, comedy, and action films. Even some of the most secular ceremonies incorporate the traditional act of kiddushin (the Jewish betrothal), which consists of the groom giving a ring to the bride in front of witnesses and saying: “harei at mekudeshet li be tabba’at zo ke-dat Moshe ve-Yisrael” (“Behold, you are consecrated to me with this ring, according to the law of Moses and Israel”).48 Sometimes this is followed by the stomping of the napkin-wrapped wedding glass, a tradition rooted in Talmudic writing (Berakhot 5:2). These rituals tend to take place under the chuppah (canopy), equally rooted in ancient customs.49 In some films that lack these symbols of Jewish weddings, even the presence of a bearded Orthodox rabbi administering the ceremony provides the essence of the wedding’s Jewish character.50 Such is the case, for instance, in Colombian Love by Shai Kanot (2004), a lowbrow comedy, that deals with the love and sexual lives, with and without commitment, of three young Tel Avivian male friends (Figure 4.7).51 Though the movie

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Figure 4.7  Colombian Love. Omer and Oranit are getting married under a chuppah with a rabbi who is stoned. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

opens with the narrator Zidane (Itay Barnea) stating, “This is a story about me, and my two best friends [Omer and Uri], and how we learned that the woman is always right, and that the man is stupid,” Kanot features men as mostly macho womanizers, unwilling to succumb to the agony of matrimonial commitment, women instead reduced to objects of sexual desire or possessions, while these latter typically lack agency. Both brides, Yael and Tali, are not presented as complex individuals; women function only as loving, supportive, and forgiving girlfriends, brides, and ultimately wives. Also secular in character is a film that is the first explicit cinematic interpretation of a traditional Jewish divorce. As the last short film of the trilogy Tel Aviv Stories, co-directed by Ayelet Menahemi and Nirit Yaron (1992), Divorce—like Sharona Honey, the first in the sequence, and Operation Cat, the second—follows the emotional life and love-related distress of a secular Israeli woman. All three stories combine drama and romance with comic and suspenseful elements.52 Divorce centers on Tikva (Anat Waxman), a 32-year-old policewoman, who spots Menahem (Shlomo Tarshish), her runaway husband, in a department store. He had disappeared five years earlier without granting her a get, the official divorce document. As he once again tries to escape, running away in the crowded spaces of a shopping mall and down an escalator, he disappears out of Tikva’s and the camera’s view. Tikva embarks on a suspenseful action chase scene. After spotting, following, and then capturing her husband in the dark corners of a ghostly storage facility, she tries to force his compliance. She takes him hostage, seemingly running amok, forcing random bystanders to come along on this hopeless journey of escape. Attractive, with her hair cropped short, and dressed in her police

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Figure 4.8  Tel Aviv Stories, Divorce. Tikva has taken a rabbi and others hostage to force her runaway husband to grant her a get. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

uniform, Tikva moves around, communicates, and holds her gun in a masculine way (Figure 4.8). She appears to call all the shots and controls her captive’s every move. In the end, despite some Orthodox rabbis’ intervention and her ability to corner Menahem so that he consents to produce the actual divorce bill, Tikva suddenly hesitates to accept the get. As she has to resolve both the current situation, but also her past and future, we hear her talk tenderly on the phone with her young children, who eagerly wait for her at home. But the weight of the religious law and system seems to have destroyed a seemingly tough woman who once was a functioning single mother, loving and caring. By accepting the get, Tikva would implicitly restore the authority of Israel’s rabbinic rulings. In other words, she finds herself trapped, not only by Menahem, who had refused to give her the get, but by the system that gives Orthodox divorce law, and thus Jewish men, the upper hand. Thus, when Tikva is given the option to finally be freed from her marriage bond—although not from the impending arrest and jail sentence—she ultimately rejects the offer. Has Tikva lost her mind? Is she a hysterical woman disguised as a male hero, only to be exposed at last? Or is she revealing the hopelessness of women’s legal standing in light of the rabbinic courts’ hold on divorce legislation? In Menahmei and Yaron’s vision, the character of Tikva disturbs the conventional boundaries of Jewish women and men, merging traditionally female traits with their masculine counterparts. Despite her helplessness in the face of the rabbinic strictures and establishment, she quite clearly acts like a strong woman who can hold her own. Her decision to ultimately refuse the get, and to thus endorse the rabbinic authority, can be read as a clear sign of protest and agency. In Colombian Love and in Divorce, as in numerous other cinematic explorations of Israel’s secular society, only a hint of Judaism is present, reduced to minimal

230  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film symbolisms or traditions evoking explicitly Jewish marriage and divorce rituals. The underlying aspiration is to integrate Israeli society into a liberal global, preferably Western imagination, in which secular Israeli scenery, plots, and characters, aim to surprise by telling a unique story of universal appeal. It is often only the tying or untying of the knot that references ancient Jewish laws and customs, the tying here imagined and created by a male director, the untying by two women directors. The distinctive feature of these unmistakably secular portrayals of marriage and divorce, which sets them apart as Israeli cinematic renderings, is the underlying tension between the national Jewish and the global universal. Perhaps not entirely randomly, the Jewish bride as imagined by most male directors lack decisive agency. The Jewish divorcee as conceived by two female directors instead enacts the women’s strength, in spite of the apparently misogynous frame of rabbinic divorce legislation. Israeli Jews interpreted as religious characters increasingly abound in Israeli film. Despite the complexity of the relationship between state and religion, Israel in its declaration of independence unequivocally defines itself as a “Jewish state.” While most Israelis identify as Jewish, those who regularly practice religion—only slightly more than half of the country’s population—do so in many different ways, following distinctive traditions, at diverse levels of observance, adhering to different legal precepts, and belonging to a variety of denominations, groups, and sects. Representations and interpretations of religious life and practice in film, specifically as they relate to marriage and divorce, are accordingly varied and complex. Whereas only a marginal number of movies featured religious characters and plots during the first half-century of the country’s existence, over the last two decades there has been a virtual explosion of cinematic, televised, and online renderings of Israel’s religious communities.53 Among these more recent films, we can discern several different categories: those that engage the intersection of the secular and religious worlds; those that are critical of Orthodoxy and ultra-Orthodoxy; and those that portray religious life and characters in a favorable light. While the significant presence of religious themes in these later films partially reflects a demographic shift in Israel’s population, it is mostly the growing sociopolitical stature of the country’s religious parties since the 1990s—not to mention the election of Naftali Bennett, Israel’s first Orthodox prime minister, in 2021 and the inclusion of ultra-Orthodox parties and ministers in the governing coalition following the elections in November 2022—that account for the more visible religification of the public and cultural spheres.54 The increased prominence of pious characters on screen as an ingredient in the making of the Newer Jew(ess) is indeed embedded in a much larger spectrum of cultural media that engage Judaism, including the visual and performing arts.55 Within the context of early Zionist aspirations to promote a country based on liberal and secular values, during the first two decades of Israeli cinema portrayals of Orthodoxy were marginalized, integrated mostly in the realm of diasporic imaginary representations of Eastern European communities. Wedding scenes, as in Israel Becker’s (1966) movie The Shnei Kuni Lemel (based on a Yiddish play by Abraham Goldfaden), highlight the family as the most important social institution

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  231 and frame of reference.56 As a threatened minority, the survival of the Jewish shtetl (a small Jewish town or village in eastern Europe) was entirely dependent on control over proper marriage alliances among Jews. The plot centers around matchmaker Reb Kalman (Raphael Klatchkin), who tries to find a shidduch (marriage match) for Reb Pinchas’s (Shmuel Rodensky) daughter Carolina (Rina Ganor). The film culminates with two simultaneous wedding celebrations—Kuni Lemel’s (Mike Burstyn) and his cousin Max’s (also Mike Burstyn)—the former with Ren Pinchas’s daughter Lebelah (Jermain Unikovsky), and the latter with Carolina. Becker directs the narrative perspective where it is the men who pick the bride, and where the women wait passively and dream to be chosen by the right kind of grooms as their wives. The wedding festivities take place between “reality” and fantasy, framed by the buildings of a shtetl-like landscape animated by the colorful costumes reminiscent of Eastern-European folk and fairy tales, where some among the musicians, rabbis and guests, brides and grooms, sit on the rooftops of a Chagallesque village. The whole is accompanied by the sounds of prayer, singing, and violin. Despite the fictitious settings, the movie features recognizable Jewish wedding ceremonies and paraphernalia, including a chuppah and Torah scrolls, signaling the sacred nature of the unions. By combining comical and derisory effects, the characters are at once familiar and endearing, but at the same time presented as folkloric relics of the past, void of all emotional expression and depth. As a fictional rendering of memories of Jewish life, the religious settings and figures do not offend the secular ideals of Zionism. Positioned in an intermediary space between past and present, between fictional and authentic, the weddings thus serve to perpetuate Jewish life and tradition, signaling above all a Jewish racial continuity from Eastern Europe toward Israel while maintaining a patriarchal structure where all agency ultimately lies with the male characters. A number of films and television series engage the intersection of the country’s secular and religious worlds, many among them by focusing on romantic and marital relationships. Ron Ninio’s A Touch Away (2007), an eight-episode TV series set in Bnei Brak, an ultra-Orthodox suburb of Tel Aviv, portrays the hopeless love story between Roha’le Berman (Gaya Traub), a young Haredi woman, and Zorik Mints (Henry David), a secular Russian immigrant.57 Their romance is set against the circumstances of their family’s opposition. Instead of following her parents’ and community’s custom of arranged marriage without prior intimacy, Roha’le falls in love with Zorik. As the continued encounters and developing emotions between Roha’le and Zorik bring the two worlds together, the series’ poster and title, as well as the plot’s ending, highlight the unbridgeable gap between secular and religious. A Touch Away (or Mirchak Negiah the Hebrew title), references the Orthodox ruling of shomer negiah (literally meaning “observant of touch,” standing for the prohibition of having physical contact with a member of the opposite sex, the exception being for spouses outside the niddah period, and certain relatives), a boundary that Roha’le appears to have broken, as she repeatedly meets with Zorki in hiding and unsupervised. After someone from her community observes them together in a room, she no longer qualifies as a match for an unblemished spouse.

232  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film The intertwined hands on the film poster are an expression of Roha’le’s and Zorki’s emotional and physical attraction, but also a signifier of their clear transgression of the strict Orthodox ruling of shomer negiah. Reminiscent of the nearly touching index fingers of God and Adam on Leonardo da Vinci’s Sistine Chapel’s ceiling, the hands on the poster highlight the film’s radical overstepping of Roha’le’s and Zorki’s respective world’s boundaries: those between the two sexes, between divine ordinances and human lives and sexual drives, and above all between Israel’s secular and Orthodox societies. Director Ninio, while seemingly balanced in his portrayal of the two protagonists’ emotional and social worlds, envisions Roha’le as the ultimate victim both of the religious restrictions as well as of her own uncontrollable erotic temptations and emotions. Avshalom (Uli Sternberg), a baal teshuva (a secular Jew who becomes observant and thus of a somewhat compromised status himself), is given full disclosure about the transgressions of Roha’le, and is willing to marry her—yet only if she does so out of her own free will (Figure 4.9). Though she readily admits to Avshalom that she loves another, their common commitment to an ultra-Orthodox lifestyle provides the necessary foundation for a future together. The series ends with Roha’le’s and Avshalom’s wedding. In the concluding scene, the camera draws the viewer into Roha’le’s emotional state, contrasting the celebratory wedding rituals, dress, and decor with her palpable suffering. She is portrayed as the ultimate victim of this love drama, unable to break the strict regulations imposed by Orthodoxy and the boundaries between the religious and secular realms of Israeli society. Intermittently, in another part of town, we see a heartbroken Zorki, with his back turned to the camera, visible behind him the city that is home to people from two separate Jewish worlds (apart from the non-Jewish Jerusalemites who remain invisible in this story). Zorki, now featured in profile, screams Roha’le’s

Figure 4.9  A Touch Away. Roha’le’s parents inform their daughter about a shidduch they arranged for her. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

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Figure 4.10  A Touch Away. Zorik screams Roha’le’s name as she is getting married. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

name from the depth of his soul—a last devastating declaration of shattered love (Figure 4.10). Yet Zorki remains free to start a new relationship and give his emotional life the chance of a new beginning. Roha’le, on the other hand, has had to succumb to the strictures of her community’s expectations and consent to a marriage without love. More fully entrapped by the boundaries of Haredi life are the characters in Amos Gitai’s Kadosh (1999), the first movie to critically examine the position of ultra-Orthodox women on screen. The film explores both marriage and divorce and how religious legislation defines, indeed strangles, all possibilities of healthy love and sexuality. Marriage here, despite the apparent affection and attraction between Rifka and Meir, is shown to be dictated by the biblical command to reproduce (Genesis 1:28 and Genesis 9:1). Their failure to have children after ten years of marriage results in Meir’s coerced decision to remarry and in Rifka’s emotional disintegration. After their separation the two continue to yearn for each other, emotionally and physically, and we see them more than once finding each other in a tight sensual embrace, sleeping in the same bed. The audience is left hanging, trying to distinguish between dream and actuality. In the last scene that shows them together, Rifka has joined Meir in his bed (with his new wife conspicuously absent). While during the night their bodies are sexually aroused and entangled, once Meir wakes up, he finds Rifka lifeless in his arms (Figure 4.11). As the story of their broken love unfolds, we also learn of Rifka’s sister Malka (Meital Berdah) and her intimate relationship with Yaakov (Sami Huri), a rock singer who has abandoned his formerly Haredi life. Yet, Malka is coerced by her parents to marry Yosef (Uri Ran-Klausner). The night of their wedding, which itself is featured as a mournful affair (Figure 4.12), he forces himself on her sexually.

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Figure 4.11  Kadosh. A marriage, despite love and intimacy, is doomed to fail, showing Rifka and Meir. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Figure 4.12  Kadosh. Malka and Yosef’s wedding. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Soon after, out of despair, she runs away looking for Yaakov, to whom she gives herself with passion. Most of the movie’s significant scenes take place in bedrooms. The beginning opens with Rifka and Meir, their two beds separated as customary during the couple’s observance of the days of niddah. At various times we see them in a larger bed caressing each other, making love, conversing, arguing, sleeping side by side—and, finally, Rifka dying in Meir’s embrace. After Rifka’s move to a tiny and modestly furnished room following their divorce, we see her mostly sitting or lying in bed, depressed, disoriented, weeping, praying, or simply mute. At one point we see a drunk Meir kneeling at her bed on Purim,

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  235 at another moment Malka sits or lies next to her sister, tenderly talking to her or to herself, as Rifka is increasingly withdrawn into a distant emotional sphere. The marital bed is also the stage for most of Malka’s encounters with her husband, including the scene in which she is assaulted by him, forcibly penetrated as she lies frozen. On another occasion we see her brutally beaten with a belt. The bed frames all of Kadosh’s marital scenes as defined by Orthodox law: it stands for tender love and intercourse, but primarily for misery and coercion, indeed violence, even rape, and death. The only love scene expressly featuring a passionate act of intercourse shows Malka and Yaakov, standing in a room at his workplace. The incompatibility of passion and an Orthodox marriage union seems unmistakable. Despite the apparent critique of the community’s patriarchal structure, Gitai depicts the film’s women, Rifka and her sister Malka, as the ultimate victims, lacking all forms of agency, the former dying from sorrow, the latter yielding to a forced marriage and rape. The concluding scene shows Rifka walking on the Mount of Olives, the Dome of the Rock, and the Golden Gate in the background, mourning her sister’s death after apparently attending her funeral. She no longer covers her hair, suggesting she left her husband and her community. Rather than highlighting her agency as a woman who can negotiate a place for herself within her family and community, however, Gitai deploys her merely to perform the necessary rupture with the ultra-Orthodox world. Much more positive portrayals of Israeli’s Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox society include films made by and for members of these communities. One category consists of films that can only be seen by the members of the very community they depict. Haredi cinema, most thoroughly described and analyzed by Marlyn Vinig, emerged in the late 1990s primarily as a result of the communities’ exposure to computers and the internet.58 Beginning with the online distribution of films that were difficult to oversee in terms of content and thus relevance and appropriateness for ultra-Orthodox audiences, this genre quickly evolved into a strictly regulated and gendered enterprise. Films that are made for men, featuring men only, can be watched online. Movies that are made for women, featuring exclusively women (with some rare exceptions), are screened publicly, that is, in select venues reserved for special occasions and an ultra-Orthodox women’s audience only. The content of these films, incorporating more action and adventure in the men’s films, and increasingly heavy with emotion and family drama in the women’s versions, entirely comply with the rules and customs of Israel’s ultra-Orthodox society. The movies destined for women in particular are tightly controlled and overseen by rabbinical authorities in terms of production, content, distribution, and screening. Typically conceived as melodramas, these films use plots that have an educational message, reinforcing religious values and core beliefs. Often exploring relationships between mothers and daughters as well as other female relatives or friends, the stories incorporate references to male characters but refrain from showing them on screen. Marriage and building families, constituting the key responsibilities of the religious woman, play a role in most of these representations and emerge as central features in plots and character development.

236  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film One example is Lev Tahor by Ra’anan Ziv (2007), telling the story of Chaiah (Henia Schwarz), a dyslexic girl who despite her disability finds a way to excel in her studies.59 Success, of course, is primarily defined by Chaiah’s ability to find a good match for marriage, a goal seemingly hampered by numerous obstacles, including her inability to study in the Beth Yaacov girl’s seminary, or the shatchanit (matchmaker) who doubts her human qualities and thus feasibility for a respectable match. Chaiah is portrayed as steadfast in her commitment to leading a life of virtue, while she is also cast as beautiful, gentle, and kind. Her choice to volunteer in a nursing home, her dedication and commitment to the well-being of others in need and distress, are ultimately rewarded when she is recognized for her true worth. The audience learns of a man (but never sees him) who has watched her take care of the elderly and thus decides that she is the right match for his son. The crowning end of the movie reveals that she is getting married to this son, clearly a most desirable match, and that she will live with him in London. In the concluding scene (Figure 4.13), we see her joining her mother (Rina Levia), grandmother (Veronica Gottlieb), and friend Susie (Davida Carol) in her home’s living room. Susie is an elderly lady whom Chaiah has saved from being evicted from the nursing home. Chaiah, in contrast to her earlier appearances, is beautifully made up and dressed in an elegant coat (referencing her social climbing through marriage). She also has finally mastered baking a cake (for which she is enthusiastically praised) and receives a generous wedding gift from Susie: a tea set and 400,000 shekels. The camera zooms into the check making its monetary value clearly visible. Chaiah’s exemplary character and pious behavior, despite numerous impediments, have ultimately blessed her with all a young single woman could wish for, at least as director Ziv envisions it.

Figure 4.13  Lev Tahor. Chaiah enters as her mother, grandmother, and Susie are waiting for her to congratulate her on finding a good shidduch. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  237 The production design is clearly modest, and the cinematography, including directing and acting, is mostly amateurish. Given the community’s highly controlled and limited exposure to Israel’s more global film culture, the lack of sophistication, however, is hardly a hurdle in reaching the targeted audience and in assuring entertainment and pleasure. Through simple camera movements, detailed shots of facial expressions, and the intermittent sound of “inoffensive” elevator music, it is easy to engage the audience, who recognize in Chaiah morally and emotionally appealing traits of personality and conduct and readily identify with her. With her, they encounter and ultimately overcome the challenges she faces, some of them instigated by inconsiderate and ill-intentioned individuals. With Chaiah, the women viewers experience the divinely sanctioned denouement in which all her previous difficulties are banished, as she is blessed with an expensive wedding present and the most valuable gift of all for women: marriage. In contrast to Haredi cinema, produced by mostly Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox film crews and casts, which is geared exclusively toward an ultra-Orthodox audience, a growing number of popular movies and series (TV and online) exploring the human layers and qualities of Israel’s pious communities, are produced for a general public.60 The success of these largely positive portrayals of Israel’s observant communities is linked to the emerging participation of directors, scriptwriters, and film teams from religious backgrounds, the institutionalization of Orthodox film programs or schools (in particular the Maaleh School of Film and Television in Jerusalem), not to mention strategic financial support (specifically from the Avi Chai Foundation), designed to improve the public image and visibility of values and traditions of these previously marginalized populations. Most notable are the highly successful movies by director Rama Burshtein, the first ultra-Orthodox woman to direct a film intended for wide distribution.61 Following her first box office success, Fill the Void (2013), The Wedding Plan (2016) centers around Michal (Noa Koler), who has reached the “advanced” age of 30-plus and is still single. While the majority in the community marry in their late teens or early 20s and most couples have multiple children by their early 30s, remaining single or marrying at a later stage in life has become an increasingly common reality in ultra-Orthodox circles.62 This experience plays itself out as Michal finds herself single, a situation she seemingly owns; empowered by her faith, she displays signs of confidence intermittent with outbursts of panic and desperation over her marital status. The camera guides the audience through her emotional upheavals and encourages the viewer’s compassion, if not admiration, for Michal. After her fiancé backs out the day before the nuptials (Figure 4.14), Michal is determined to replace him with someone else and refuses to cancel the wedding arrangements. She is guided by her trust in God and does not give up hope as she goes through a sequence of shidduchim (plural of shidduch), experiencing one bitter failure after the other, each one increasingly humiliating. Suspense builds, and in the film’s last minutes appears Shimi (Amos Tamam), the handsome and appealing manager of the wedding hall in Jerusalem, offering himself as the groom.

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Figure 4.14  The Wedding Plan. Michal is being told by her fiancé that he doesn’t love her. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Figure 4.15  The Wedding Plan. Michal and her family and friends have doubts that a groom will show up at the scheduled wedding. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Concern, fear, anxiety, followed by surprise, relief, and deep emotion can be read on the characters’ faces (Figure 4.15). A sensation of divine intervention or, rather, cinematographic intervention seems to overwhelm the audience as they are drawn into the plot, following the characters’ rapidly changing emotional states. To enhance the spectator’s ability to identify and sympathize with the character’s emotional and social worlds, Burshtein integrates features and characters from the secular world, not commonly found within the highly conservative communities of Israel’s ultra-Orthodox society. These include one of Michal’s best friends, who

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  239 wears dreadlocks, and an ultra-Orthodox Japanese man who presents himself as a potential shidduch. Michal drives a bright pink-and-red minibus that she uses professionally for, among other things, a mobile petting zoo. On the dates she embarks on, Michal takes her fate into her own hands. She, rather than the men she meets, is the one who judges, approves, or disapproves of the potential match. It is always she who takes the lead in action and conversation, and in deciding whether to move forward or not. The planning of the wedding that ties the entire narrative together is accompanied by constant tension and anticipation. Relief is only felt as the movie concludes, culminating in a miraculous turn of events, the wondrous appearance of a groom, and the actual wedding ceremony. A brief final shot jumps ahead in time to the brit milah of Michal’s and Shimi’s newborn son, completing the happily-ever-after narrative. Despite all odds, Michal’s inner confidence in God, not to mention in her own worth, has carried her through a most difficult time. Burshtein excels at turning a miserable and humiliating situation into one where the heroine masters her fate by taking control of her actions in her quest for a suitable husband. Much as the religious Jew(ess)—whether a national Orthodox, Hassidic, or ultra-Orthodox figure—has transitioned from marginal to central casting, so other previously sidelined social and ethnic groups have increasingly appeared in mainstream films. The above selection of marriage, wedding, and divorce stories and scenes reflects the general social transformation as well as the changing cultural and media renderings of the landscape of Israeli identity.63 Rooted in the early secular ideology of Zionism, the first five decades of cinematic representations favored a secular framing for the couple’s commitment to live together, yet, for the most part, even the nonreligious wedding was celebrated as a distinctly Jewish affair. As cinema, television, and online films and series increasingly engage the complexity of Israeli society, the melting pot ideology has gradually made room for more diverse and individualized portrayals of Jews. While the Israeli film industry aspires to culturally, artistically, and commercially integrate into the international and global, mostly Western, film scene, marriage and divorce remain at the forefront in negotiating a distinct Jewish-Israeli identity or offering newer versions of the Jew(ess); thus, films incorporate secular, traditional, and, increasingly, religious identity portraits. Regardless of the thematic focus or angle of engagement with society’s ethnic or religious outlook, however, male directors have tended to only sparingly endorse their female characters with agency. Most female directors, on the other hand, appear to have imagined and created Jewish women with a resourceful repertoire of visual and verbal signs of agency. Gendered Lenses According to lawyer and Talmud scholar Judith Romney Wegner, the Mishnah defines women in the context of marriage as chattel. Her analysis outlines how fathers and spouses can optimize the trading of her sexual potency.64 In her exploration of biblical and rabbinic texts, feminist scholar and activist Bonna Devora

240  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film Haberman shows how concepts of ownership (ba’alut) with regard to marriage and divorce evolved over time—tracing adjustments made by Rashi and Maimonides— and how ancient and medieval rulings have shaped contemporary Judaism, and Israeli legislation more specifically. In her words, “[B]iblical and rabbinic texts both affirm and revile unilateral male power over women spouses.”65 Her analysis of two stories from Gittin exemplifies how marital abuses by men are informed by biblical rules in Deuteronomy and Genesis. Her assessment of gender disparity as it transpires in these texts is evocative: Commensurate with control over the relationship resting squarely with the man, these texts [Gittin 57a and Gittin 58a] exacerbate women’s powerlessness. In spite of dramatic upheavals in the women’s lives, the texts attribute no agency to the women—no response, attitude, personality, motives, or desires. Scripted by the interplay of male puppeteers who control their strings, these women are silent, lifeless, empty forms, marionettes.66 Over the centuries, a number of rabbis and scholars have made efforts to alter marriage and divorce legislation in order to alleviate the burden on wives. Bluma Goldstein has studied how these efforts were judged by various rabbinical figures to be halakhically flawed or ineffective.67 She describes, for instance, an early “liberalizing period of about five hundred years” (seventh through eleventh century), when Talmudist and Halakhist Rabbi Gershom ben Judah (c. 960–1040) brought about nearly equal rights for women and men in the divorce process. As a result of his reforms, the husband’s right to divorce his wife was unchanged, so that he was the only one with the power to produce the actual divorce document. The wife, however, was allowed for the first time to initiate a divorce, and were her husband to refuse, she was entitled to petition the court to compel him. In the twelfth century, however, Rabbeinu Jacob Tam, a leading French Tossafist, ruled against “any coercion of recalcitrant husbands and against the right of women to initiate divorce proceedings.”68 The literature that evaluates biblical and rabbinic marriage and divorce laws from a gender-sensitive perspective—most commonly reading between the lines and extrapolating from historical and anthropological data—is growing, and by now spans three generations of scholars, among them many women. The great majority who engage these issues from a feminist standpoint, however, live and teach outside of Israel and publish primarily in English.69 These writings are clearly rooted in the early efforts to challenge Orthodox interpretations of biblical and postbiblical literature, initially in the context of the Wissenschaft des Judentums and the related emergence of more liberal interpretations of religious practice. Together, these nineteenth-century efforts in Germany to reframe rabbinic literature and twentieth- and twenty-first-century scholarship elsewhere, have resulted in the Reform and Conservative movements shaping more egalitarian approaches to Jewish marriage and divorce legislation.70 While slowly infiltrating religious practice in Israel, Jewish marriage and divorce rulings, their biblical and rabbinic interpretations, and how these are applied in Israel’s rabbinical courts, however, remain a domain that largely privileges men.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  241 The men who control these rulings include the rabbis who work for the 12 regional rabbinical courts, the Great Court in Jerusalem, and to some extent ultraOrthodox men who study at various kollelim (institutes for full-time advanced study of Talmud and rabbinic literature), as well as most legal experts and academics who bring traditional Jewish texts into dialogue with current practices and laws.71 While women have increasingly gained access to biblical and rabbinic studies, not to mention various legal and paralegal fields—including as advisors in rabbinical courts—their inclusion in positions of power or decision-making with regard to Jewish marriage and divorce legislation, however, remains limited.72 Rather than exploring marriage and divorce from a text-critical and legal perspective, however—a method that unequivocally compromises women’s voices—readings of film and television texts can more easily engage a much broader spectrum of Israel’s diverse population. The Israeli film industry, apart from perhaps most art films and documentaries, is hardly an exclusivist enterprise. It appears to cross most socioeconomic, ethnic, and religious divides, not to mention challenging sexual conventions and taboos. As we have seen, renderings of marriage and divorce scenes and plots in Israeli film portray different ethnic communities, individuals from various socioeconomic and educational backgrounds within secular, traditional, Orthodox, and ultra-Orthodox contexts, with approximately equal footage devoted to women and men.73 The same can be said of the viewers. Other than the Haredi community, the screening and watching of films is relevant to most communities that make up Israel’s secular and religious society—with growing international and online distribution, including among diasporic communities. Nonetheless, while women’s eminence in Israeli film is certainly laudable, and no doubt contributes to a better representation of female and feminist voices, experiences, and sensibilities, only a modest number of these films reach wide audiences, as they are mostly limited to short films and documentaries.74 Furthermore, on screen just as on paper, voices can be marginalized, excluded, or manipulated to shape intricate layers of gendered perspectives. And it is the directors who ultimately design the imbricated layers of women’s characters and shape the audiences’ experiences. It is specifically the different possibilities of engaging women’s conformity to Jewish marriage and divorce traditions and legislation in cinematic spaces—and their level of agency—I wish to examine.75 Scholarship on gender in Israeli film is deeply rooted in American and British feminist film theory. Yet many of the historical and cultural reference points used in the latter literature have limited relevance to Israeli social and religious realities. A similar impact of second-, third-, and fourth-wave feminist and postfeminist movements on Israeli feminism is obvious, yet often only marginally applicable to Israel’s sociopolitical and legal contexts. The foundations of gender inquiries in Israeli cinema were laid, among others, in a number of groundbreaking writings by Ella Shohat, Nurith Gertz, Orly Lubin, and Yael Munk.76 Booklength studies on representations of Israeli men and masculinity in film include the work of Yosef Raz and Nir Cohen.77 More recently, Rachel Harris has followed their lead, focusing on women in Israeli cinema. Gendered explorations of Israeli men have centered on questions ranging from cinematic representations

242  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film of the New Hebrew or the New Jew, to the ethno-stereotyping of the “Mizrahi macho” and the “Ashkenazi laflaf (a geek),” and increasingly on explorations of heteronormativity, homonormativity, and queerness.78 Dominant concerns for interpretations of Israeli women in film concerning their transition from the margins to the center of the plots and narratives; their roles in the army; their position as war widows; their racial and ethnic identities; and most importantly their sexuality, frequently in the position of objects of male desire, but increasingly as victims of abuse and rape, or as figures of liberation and empowerment; relationships of love and marriage with Palestinians; and only rarely lesbian spaces and relations.79 Jewish traditions and religiosity, in most of these studies of gender performance and identities, specifically in the context of cinematic interpretations of marriage and divorce, have always played a significant role, beginning with the Bourekas and especially in the context of films featuring Israel’s Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox society. Foundational for reading film text and for understanding the related literature from a gender-sensitive perspective is Laura Mulvey’s seminal essay—though subsequently challenged by a number of film theorists—“Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” published in the British film theory journal Screen (1975). Her work is strongly influenced by Sigmund Freud’s and Jacques Lacan’s theories, which leads her to explore film from a psychoanalytic angle defined by her feminist outlook. Using specifically the Freudian concept of phallocentrism, Mulvey understands films as reflections shaped by patriarchal ideals.80 Perhaps the most longstanding impact was her formulation of the male gaze and the discerning of three types of spectatorships, which in her view, inadvertently contributed to reinforcing social roles traditionally associated with women and men. In her words: The scopophilic instinct (pleasure in looking at another person as an erotic object) and, in contradistinction, ego libido (forming identification processes) act as formations, mechanisms, which mould this cinema’s formal attributes. The actual image of woman as (passive) raw material for the (active) gaze of man takes the argument a step further into the content and structure of representation, adding a further layer of ideological significance demanded by the patriarchal order in its favourite cinematic form … Going far beyond highlighting a woman’s to-be-looked-at-ness, cinema builds the way she is to be looked at into the spectacle itself. … There are three different looks associated with cinema: that of the camera as it records the pro-filmic event, that of the audience as it watches the final product, and that of the characters at each other within the screen illusion.81 Building on Mulvey’s psychoanalytic approach, E. Ann Kaplan proposes to also consider the “constructed” social, cultural, and linguistic shapers of gendered behaviors. Kaplan notices that in film: “[M]en do not simply look; their gaze carries with it the power of action and of possession that is lacking in the female gaze. Women receive and return a gaze but cannot act on it.”82

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  243 To counter this gendered disparity, Kaplan invites women to: move beyond long-held cultural and linguistic patterns of oppositions … If rigidly defined sex differences have been constructed around fear of the other, we need to think about ways of transcending a polarity that has only brought us all pain.83 Expanding on these and other notions developed by feminist film scholars, Orly Lubin tailors her observations specifically to Israeli cinema. Stressing, like Kaplan, the social and cultural influences on perception, Lubin argues, “In Israeli films, the dominant mechanism is not the penetrating gaze but rather social positioning … .”84 Taking this insight a step further, she suggests: The opinions of some feminist theoreticians notwithstanding, women do not necessarily read texts differently than men. Reading and viewing are acquired skills and not functions of biological differences. Insofar as women, like men, learn to read and view within the hegemony, any difference between the way men and women read/view can only emerge within the context of that system.85 Applying these and other helpful gender-sensitive tools to cinematic representations of marriage and divorce in Israeli film affords close readings of a few films in each thematic category: Late Marriage by Dover Kosashvili (2001), and Fill the Void by Rama Burshtein (2012) as illustrations of Jewish wedding themes; Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem by Ronit Elkabetz and Shlomi Elkabetz (2014), and Unchained by Tamar Kay and David Ofek (2019) as paradigms for Jewish divorce subjects. Bringing all three dimensions of cinematic space—the space inside the film, the audience’s interiority, and the physical or virtual space between the screen and the viewer—into dialogue with patriarchy and women’s agency, reveals the complexity of reading the gendered layers and perspectives as portrayed, enacted, and experienced on screen. In Late Marriage and Fill the Void, from the outset, matrimony as a foundation for a life of stability and wholesomeness frames the plots. Both films conclude with a wedding celebration. In Late Marriage, Zaza (Lior Ashkenazi) is a 31-yearold bachelor who has done his best to remain unattached. His parents and other members of their close family and social circle take it upon themselves to apply any kind of assistance, pressure, ruse, and indeed verbal and physical violence to accomplish their goal of getting him married to a suitable virgin from among their Jewish-Georgian community. Together, they try to prevent him from going astray in a relationship they deem unacceptable. His lover, Judith (Ronit Elkabetz), is older, divorced, and the mother of a young daughter, Madonna (Sapir Kugman). In this film, director Dover Kosashvili explores his Georgian background, featuring his own mother in the role of Lili (Lili Kosashvili). The narrative and character portrayals counter in numerous ways stereotypical representations and plots we know from the early Bourekas films. With their aim

244  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film to repress and correct the “Oriental” peculiarities and merge the Mizrahi population with the desired Western European cultural standards through intermarriage, one significant condition has been to establish the formers’ identity as legitimate Jews. In Late Marriage, no distinctive scenes of Jewish rituals or symbolism are necessary to ascertain Zaza’s and his family’s Judaism—not even in the context of the final wedding scene. The story unmistakably takes place in Israel, the characters speak either in Judeo-Georgian or in Hebrew, sometimes in a mix of both. Rather than adopting the identity of the New Jew, however, Zaza reinforces his parents’ ethnic affiliation, sealing the deal by leaving his Moroccan lover and ultimately marrying a Georgian woman (Figure 4.16). His portrayal thus counters the artificial grouping of Jews from various Arab countries into one quintessential “Oriental” Jew, most clearly by stressing the boundary between his Georgian community and his lover’s North African background. It also denies the early Zionist ambition to ultimately blend the non-Ashkenazi Jew into the imaginary Israeli identity construct of the New Jew. Zaza’s masculinity is mostly reduced to an exaggerated sexual drive, apparent in his performative and explicit intercourse with Judith highlighting not only nudity and intense sexual breathing, sounds, and movement, but also his ejaculation; his attraction to Ilana, a 17-year-old schoolgirl introduced to him and his family as a virgin and available for marriage, whom he eagerly and physically flirts with; the comments he makes on his father’s sex (“Dad, what a gorgeous cock you’ve got!”), followed by embracing his father around his buttocks. Finally, his role as a son in Oedipal adoration of his mother, surprises the audience—the viewer as much as the wedding guests—when he takes the microphone at his wedding (Figure 4.16), announcing, “I have a woman on the side more beautiful than my wife,” finally

Figure 4.16  Late Marriage. Zaza, drunk at his wedding, tells the guests, that there is a woman in his life who is “more beautiful than his wife.” Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  245 relieving the tension when he identifies his mother as that other woman (and not his lover). Kosashvili clearly compromises Zaza’s masculinity; or, according to Raz Yosef's reading, “this is a cinematic representation of humiliated and debased diasporic masculinity—scarred by physical and sexual lack—which signifies the loss of heteropatriarchal power and authority in the wake of the crisis of migration and the failure to assimilate into the national body.”86 Zaza’s weakness is apparent when he fails to stand up for Judith and does not protect her when his family harasses her and uses violence in his presence. At 31, he is unable to make independent life choices and dutifully meets the matches his parents pick out for him; he ultimately marries according to their will. Yet, the emphasis on Zaza’s complicated manhood, macho traits combined with exaggerated compliance with his family’s pressures, distracts—at least to some extent—from Kosashvili’s highly problematic explorations of femininity. These later resonate blatantly in the highly negative traits commonly associated with cinematic representations of Mizrahi women: the eroticism and sexual urge of Ilana, the young Georgian virgin who appears to be closely guarded by her family members, who introduce her to Zaza’s parents as a potential bride; Judith’s sexual lust and availability, not to mention her erotic performance and clothing style, which, despite her claimed interest in a serious relationship with commitment, make her look cheap, sexually available, and immoral, in other words, prostitute-like; Lili, the embodiment of the Jewish mother, who only wants the best for her son yet commands his every step, is overbearing and controlling, specifically with regard to his choice of women, not to mention her use of witchcraft to command his sexual commitment; and even the bride, who has nothing to offer but her revealing, immodest wedding dress—though presumably that of a virgin—who at her own wedding is humiliated publicly by a drunk husband, and yet shows no sign of agency or anger (Figure 4.16). Kosashvili has excelled in breaking early cinematic ethnic formulas. At the same time, however, he reinforces known tropes of Mizrahi women, assuming—as Harris has ably demonstrated for much of Israeli cinema—witchlike and whorelike traits for most of his female protagonists.87 In 2013, Rama Burshtein’s Fill the Void was screened, the first motion picture ever directed by an ultra-Orthodox woman and intended for the general public. While the plot reinforces multiple notions associated with the community’s patriarchal frame, the reading suggests a female, if not feminist, point of view.88 According to the conventions of the ultra-Orthodox community, Shira Mendelman (Hadas Yaron), the protagonist of the story, at 18, is expected to get married. She lives with her Hasidic family in Tel Aviv, who prepare her for a shidduch with a young man from her community whom she likes. Following the death of her older sister, Esther (Renana Raz), in childbirth, she is pressured to marry her sister’s husband, Yochay (Yiftach Klein), a quasi-reversal of the biblical concept of levirate marriage (yibbum; Deuteronomy 25:5–10 and later interpreted in Mishnah

246  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film Yevamot 4:11), expecting the brother of a deceased man to marry his brother’s widow.89 Marriage here, rather than being a personal matter, is a family and community affair. If Shira fails to espouse the widower, her family will lose close contact with their grandchild, Mordechai, as Yochay is set up to marry a widow in Belgium. Despite her initial hesitation and indeed reluctance to marry Yochay, Shira ultimately agrees. Without much surprise to the audience, the story concludes with Shira’s and Yochay’s wedding celebration. Perhaps less predictable is Shira’s state of mind during the event. Shown in her wedding dress, the camera zooms in on her face as we see her praying and crying, her makeup running down her cheeks. We are drawn into her emotional state, where her rhythmic movements of prayer appear to underline her nervous anticipation. Then, once at home, alone with her husband, we see her standing pressed against the wall of their bedroom, her face now showing clear signs of both fear and excitement (Figure 4.17). And then we notice Yochay as he prepares for the consummation of their marriage. The sexual tension is palpable despite their physical distance and the economy of their exposed skin. Following the Orthodox precepts of modesty, only their hands and faces are visible beyond the fabric of their clothing. Marriage in this movie is held up as the ultimate life-fulfilling goal, the wedding itself functioning as a quasi-sexual climax. The importance of matrimony is stressed beyond the protagonists’ evolving relation through the portrayal of two single women, one being Shira’s friend Frieda (Hila Feldman), and the other her aunt, Hanna (Razia Israeli). Frieda is consumed with the desperation to find a husband at all costs, including lying to Shira, telling her that Esther would have wanted her, Frieda, to marry Yochay if something were to happen to her. If Frieda is only socially compromised as an unmarried woman, Shira’s armless aunt Hanna is also physically disabled, visually signaling the emotional and structural impediment to the life of a single woman in Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox society. The plot, on the surface, hardly suggests female agency. Yet a more in-depth analysis of character

Figure 4.17  Fill the Void. Shira anticipates the intimate moments with her husband after the wedding. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  247 portrayals, conversations, and camera work reveals unexpected signs of strength and autonomy. Burshtein suggests that an arranged marriage does not imply that either the women or the men aren’t free to choose their partners. Shira is consulted by her parents about the young man she is introduced to. Later, they ask her hesitantly, and with much tact and gentleness, what she feels about marrying Yochay. When the rabbi senses her misgivings, he does not give his blessing. Only once she feels sure about her feelings toward Yochay does she take the initiative to seek out the rabbi. At this point, he approves. It is thus neither her parents, nor the rabbi, nor Yochay who decide. The decision and thus agency lie with Shira alone. Furthermore, her mother, Rivka (Irit Sheleg), though conferring with her husband on important issues, is ultimately the one who seems to dictate his actions. Similarly, Aunt Hanna, despite her physical impediment, seems to hold her own and is hardly too timid or inhibited to speak her mind. Finally, neither the women’s visual presentation, specifically the head covers for the married women, nor the women’s modest clothing, often viewed by outsiders to the Orthodox world as signs of women’s subordination or suppression, seems to compromise women’s authority, nor their appeal or sensuality. In sum, Fill the Void and its women may not satisfy what most feminists from secular backgrounds value. The filmmaker does, however, project a feminocentric vision and sensitivity that is rooted in female self-confidence, whose strength can only be understood and appreciated if the societal and cultural context is understood in its fullest dimensions. Aware of this caveat, Karen Skinazi recognizes what she describes as the “female religious gaze” (figure 4.18) in the film, commenting on how: [the] viewers are brought in line with the religious woman’s gaze: when we are watching the men dance at a wedding through what appears to be the gaps in the mechitzah, the barrier that separates the genders […] Gender segregation allows us to focus on women primarily, and almost exclusively, even

Figure 4.18  Fill the Void. Shira and her mother Rivka inspect her potential match at the supermarket. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

248  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film though it can be read as feministically suspect. […] Whether on one side of the mechitzah or participating in a shidduch, the women are the action of the film. The mechitzah, rather than marginalize, creates a boundary line, limiting the scope of our interest—to the women. The shidduch, the film drives home, is about women’s right to choose. […] The opening scene establishes the significance of the female religious gaze. Shira and her mother Rivka are at the supermarket in order to check out Shira’s potential match. There is little in terms of speech in this case, but there is a great deal of looking. The camera follows the women’s line of sight down the aisles to their target and lingers there; viewers watch as the women watch. The women traverse the supermarket, which, even in the dairy section, appears to us as a meat market of men. Shira and Rivka find their mark, take stock of his comportment, his clothing, his every action, and the camera work dramatizes this scrutiny as we, the viewers, zoom in, closer than our female characters, to observe him blink. He does not return our gaze. He remains an object throughout-for them and for us. The visual work of the scene makes clear the women are the lookers, the men the looked at. The women judge, criticize, admire; the man is entirely passive.90 The main plot as well, while traditional on the surface, reveals an unusual twist. The implied reference to the biblical concept of levirate marriage, and specifically its gender reversal—that is, transferring the agency from the brother of a deceased man to Shira, the sister of a deceased woman—is clearly no coincidence. Whereas in a levirate marriage, the woman is reduced to fulfilling her role as procreator, Shira’s position appears to be one that integrates numerous other emotional layers of depth and complexity. More blatantly negative about Israel’s patriarchal hegemony are films that focus on Jewish divorce themes. In Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem (2014), the third film in a trilogy, the directors, siblings Ronit and Shlomi Elkabetz, conclude Viviane’s unhappy marriage with a divorce narrated as part of a trilogy (Figure 4.19).91 Moving the overarching story gradually toward Viviane’s (Ronit Elkabetz) determination to be freed by her husband Eliahou (Simon Abkarian), Gett, as the last film in the sequence, takes on the patriarchal structure of Jewish divorce customs and laws in Israel from a highly critical perspective. It explores the actual court proceedings, spread over several years, all of the scenes shot within the very heart of the rabbinic institution. While it seems clear that Viviane’s and Eliahou’s relationship is toxic—the two are estranged—Eliahou shows great reluctance to agree to the split-up. The film concludes with the divorce ceremony nearly sabotaged by Eliahou. As he finds himself unable to pronounce the required formula— declaring Viviane to be free to be with other men—the rabbis nearly give up on the feasibility of the divorce and ask the couple to leave the room a final time, giving them privacy for a potential compromise. Eliahou, in private, pressures Viviane to promise never to be with another man, the condition he sets to ultimately go through with the official procedure. The film highlights the nonnegotiable rift

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  249

Figure 4.19  Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem. Viviane and Eliahou at the rabbinical court going through a divorce process. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

between religious strictures and traditionalism embodied in Eliahou and the more secular and sociable lifestyle personified by Viviane. As Rachel Levmore—a rabbinical court advocate and director of the Agunot and Get-Refusal Prevention Project of the International Young Israel Movement in Israel and the Jewish Agency—aptly comments on the movie, “[L]ike many women seeking divorces in Israel Viviane finds herself, her conduct, her motives, her obligations as a wife, her faithfulness, her very essence as a woman on trial.”92 Encapsulated within the confines of the rabbinic court, the almost static scenery of the theater-like performance projects the nature of Israel’s marriage and divorce system as a prison, entirely controlled as it is by Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox interpretations of rabbinic law. The rabbis’ dominance, visually enhanced by the judge’s elevated podium—this time Ashkenazi (two rabbis) and Mizrahi (one rabbi) forces acting in unison—choreographs the testimonies. Despite the seemingly dysfunctional marital relationship and the lack of emotional and sexual intimacy, the divorce is entirely dependent on the stipulations of rabbinic law, which leaves the decision in the husband’s hands exclusively. For most of the film’s length, it is Viviane alone, standing on trial against the judgment of numerous men: her husband; his brother, acting both as lawyer and as witness; the male neighbor— not to mention the rabbis. Viviane’s character, her behavior in the courtroom, and, as it transpires through the testimonies, her conduct in marriage, appear as above reproach. We learn that Viviane, unlike her husband, is not religious. Yet, both in appearance and behavior, she is modest. The only moment Viviane’s restraint seems threatened is during a break in the proceedings when, sitting at a table in the courtroom, exhausted from the endless hearings, she loosens her beautiful hip-length black hair (Figure 4.20), which otherwise remains tied behind her neck. The rabbis scold her and order her to

250  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film

Figure 4.20  Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem. Viviane loosens her hair. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

quickly gather up her hair. This brief incident is evocative of various Talmudic discussions concerning the erotic nature of hair (see for instance, Talmud Brachot 24a) and the necessity of married women to cover their heads when in public (Ketuboth 72; Bava Kama 90a; and Yoma 47a). These Talmudic deliberations, performed in the film by the rabbinic judges’ scolding of Vivian, express their seemingly suppressed anxiety about female sexuality and the hidden psychological dimensions of male patriarchy, as well as their need to control female eroticism and agency. For Viviane, however, as the ending confirms, and as already explored in greater length in the first movie of the trilogy, To Take A Wife, it is not about seducing another man. For her, the ultimate goal is to be free of Eliahou, and, perhaps indirectly, free of all male dominance. For Eliahou, instead, it is his exclusive control over Viviane and her sexuality, not her happiness nor their intimacy, that appears to matter most to him. The Elkabetz siblings have conceived and directed plot, camera work, and character portrayals in a way that exposes the problematic legal and societal frame of Jewish divorce proceedings in Israel’s rabbinic court without, however, compromising protagonist Viviane’s agency. She epitomizes women’s perseverance in the face of the seemingly unforgiving patriarchal structure of the rabbinical court system. Pursuing and ultimately obtaining the nearly unachievable goal of being liberated by her husband might send a message of hope to other women who may be subject to similar ordeals in real life.93 Codirected by Tamar Kay and David Ofek, Unchained, released on Israeli TV in 2019, engages the difficulties and traumas experienced by women like Gett’s Viviane who unilaterally seek a divorce. Using a somewhat different medium and perspective, the series spreads over 12 episodes, and so does the suspense, as the

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Figure 4.21  Unchained. Rabbi Yosef Morad assists a woman to get through the divorce procedure at the rabbinical court. Screengrab by Katharina Galor.

audience tries to resolve a series of riddles. The conundrums concern not only the mostly abused wives who struggle to obtain a get from various uncooperative husbands, who either disappear or who have moved on to other relationships or commitments, or simply act deceitfully and unethically (Figure 4.21). Much of the tension is around Yosef Morad (Aviv Alush), the rabbi who assists these helpless women, but also the relationship with his own wife, Hana (Avigail Kovari). The gap to be bridged between the secular and religious worlds turns out to be a significant impediment that affects the protagonists’ marital life.94 Yet, Rabbi Morad, leading an ultra-Orthodox lifestyle in Bnei Brak, seems to easily engage with both his secular and modern Orthodox clients, spouses, and family members, while remaining truthful to the beliefs and laws of the religious community. As the story slowly unfolds, a more serious hurdle to overcome is his wife Hana’s hidden secular past and present. This past ultimately explains why her father, an Ashkenazi rabbi of a certain standing in the rabbinic court, was willing to settle for a Mizrahi husband of Iraqi origin. Already as a teenager, so we learn halfway through the plot, Hana regularly escaped to Tel Aviv, leaving the confines of her ultra-Orthodox home and society. There she engaged with secular friends, and ultimately found herself raped. But even after her marriage to Yosef, it transpires, her desire to at least in hiding live by secular customs and activities persists. As he secretly follows her, Yosef finds out that his wife regularly meets with other anusim (a term that translates as “coerced,” referencing the feeling of formerly ultra-Orthodox Israelis who secretly abandon their faith), and surprises her

252  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film by joining her for one of their get-togethers. The group is made up of individuals who for various reasons, such as not wanting to lose access to family members or social and professional connections, continue to maintain all the external signs of a religious lifestyle, but inwardly and in secret, shed their ultra-Orthodox beliefs and practices. While this parity between Yosef and Hana certainly presents numerous problems and leads to tension and confrontations, they try to cope with their divergences, and in the end, decide to stay in their marriage. While Unchained presents a realistic range of characters with complex emotions and histories—many interpreted favorably—the plot sheds critical light on ultra-Orthodoxy. The series exposes the real phenomenon of tens of thousands of anusim known to live among Israel’s Haredi society, a situation that suggests a certain hypocrisy or pretense. The central message, however, with much the same intention as Gett, is clearly taking issue with agunot (agunah, singular, literally meaning anchored or chained women stuck in religious marriage) and the rabbinical court’s handling of divorce cases, in which women are at a clear disadvantage in comparison to men. Yet digging below the surface, once we explore the characters and their actions, this critical reading does not hold up. In Israel, while it is men, more specifically Orthodox rabbis, from whose ranks rabbinical judges are drawn, in 2013, for the first time in the country’s history, after decades of male dominance, the 11-member rabbinic judges’ appointments committee recommended four female members. Furthermore, a growing number of women lawyers, scholars, and various legal experts and activists have started to assist women in their legal battles fighting for divorce in the rabbinic courts.95 Yet, in the series, it is a man who stars as women’s savior, the handsome, indeed sexy Yosef Morad, half-rabbi, half-detective. He will not shy away from taking risks, physical, emotional, and even legal; he pressures or even forces many a recalcitrant husband to cooperate in order to free their suffering and helpless wives. Beyond dedicating his workdays—not to mention overtime in distant places and occasionally in the night hours—to rescuing women, at home he equally excels as a loving, supportive, patient, and forgiving husband. Hana, however, has been living a life of deceit. Not only has she hidden from him for several years that she was not a virgin when they married, but she leads a secret existence, socializing with other women and men who pretend to be ultraOrthodox, who have secretly given up their faith and commitment to religious laws and rituals. Hana oversteps multiple Orthodox strictures. Her relationships with men are ambiguous. She drinks alcohol. Her overall demeanor of duplicity risks reinforcing the stereotype of the rape victim’s responsibility for her abuse. Unlike Hana, who seems unwilling to change and compromise for the sake of her marriage, Yosef is a true believer in God, in his marriage, in his wife’s prevailing human qualities. He is willing to work hard to build and develop the love and trust he invests in themselves as a couple. And while Unchained could have been an all-female narrative from a feminist angle, the ultimate hero of the series is a sympathetically portrayed, sexy, macho male of spiritual and virtuous character: Rabbi Yosef Morad!

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  253 Happily Ever After … Or Not? Despite the missed opportunity to provide a robust feminist critique of the current Israeli divorce system as controlled by the rabbinical court, Unchained, like most other cinematic interpretations of divorce plots and scenes, highlights gender inequality in favor of men. Rabbi Morad stands out as the star of the series; by challenging the system—while still respecting the traditional Jewish legislative frame—he helps disadvantaged or abused wives to obtain their get. Exploring the burden and suffering of agunot on screen has contributed tremendously to increasing the visibility of women’s plight in regard to Israeli divorce rulings. No matter the perspective, whether engaging it in the context of Israel’s secular society (Divorce in Tel Aviv Stories), in dialogue with Mizrahi traditionalism (Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem), or under the orbit of rabbinic authority, acting both against and in favor of women (Unchained), the audience is aware that the rulings as set out in the Talmud and enforced by the court, operate according to a gendered hierarchy. The ultimate decision of whether a divorce can take place lies with the husband. Though a wife can initiate or request a divorce, it is the man who has to dispatch the actual bill. If he chooses against his wife’s will, refusing to release her from the marriage bond, Jewish law forbids her to remarry until she obtains the actual document. Without it, any child she might have with another man is considered a mamzer, a condition transmitted over ten generations that limits the wife to marrying exclusively another mamzer. A man, on the other hand, who is not legally divorced can live with another woman and have children with her. Neither his nor his children’s standing according to Jewish law will be negatively impacted. These are the prevailing customs of Orthodox Judaism, and the status quo in Israel since the coalition agreement between Prime Minister Ben Gurion and the religious parties at the declaration of the State of Israel in 1948. As the first organizations that assisted agunot were established to help women caught in this situation obtain legal, practical, and emotional support, the short film Divorce—perhaps not surprisingly directly by two women directors—was the first to explore the topic on screen.96 Whether organizations brought about the cinematic interest in the topic, or vice versa, is difficult to determine. It is clear, however, that both have contributed to inform and alert the public, and it has been women who took the lead in engaging these issues in both civic society and in film, actively challenging the religious status quo, and raising public awareness and consciousness. Significant in this regard is the controversy two films have stirred up in the public sphere. Following the release of Anat Zuria’s Mekudeshet (Sentenced to Marriage) in 2004, a documentary about three young women whose husbands refuse to grant them a get, lead to public protests, including both women and men, in front of the Jerusalem rabbinical court, calling for the reform of Israel’s divorce legislation.97 At the time, senior court officials were invited to take part in public discussions about the film, at which point Rabbi Shlomo Moshe Amar, the former Sephardic chief rabbi of Israel, publicly responded to the documentary, refuting the statistics that were cited in it.98 More significant still was the exposure of and

254  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film reaction to the movie Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem in 2014. On the initiative of Rabbi Shimon Yaakobi, the legal advisor to the rabbinical courts, and with the approval of the president of the High Rabbinic Court, Rabbi Yitzhak Yosef, a private screening of the film, followed by a discussion, was organized for the rabbis serving as judges in the Israeli state’s rabbinical court.99 For most of these rabbis, it was the first time they ever watched a film. According to Rachel Levmore, the rabbinical court advocate: The reason this screening for the rabbinical court judges is so important is that the movie conveys the point of view of the woman who has been unable to obtain a get. Dayanim [religious court judges], particularly the more experienced ones, think that they understand the woman’s point of view. But even for a rabbinical court advocate like myself, who has represented hundreds of women—when you see this movie, because its effect is not just intellectual but emotional too, it enables you not just to understand the woman who is seeking a get, but also to feel a little of what she feels and to understand something of what she’s going through. … The kind of unstable relationship you see between the couple in the movie—that’s something very common in the divorce cases that come before the rabbinic courts. We would place Viviane Amsalem’s suit to obtain a get in the halakhic-legal category that’s called ma’us alai (“he has become insufferable for me”)— i.e., without a clear explanation, because her husband didn’t beat her or rape her. Today, a majority of the divorce cases in the rabbinical courts fall into this category—a situation that isn’t strong enough to obligate the husband to provide a get.100 While the court has applied various century-old, indeed, millennia-old rabbinic sanctions to pressure husbands who refuse to issue a get, the Knesset and the judiciary have recently taken actions to resolve or at least mitigate the situation. In other words, injunctions against get-refusing husbands have increased.101 Such measures include the prevention of defendants from traveling outside the country, seizing their property, and stalling the issuance of passports. Other measures include prohibitions against possessing a driver’s license; of holding government positions; of operating a business; and of maintaining a bank account. Imprisonment for a period between five to ten years including solitary confinement can be decreed.102 While Eliahou’s refusal to grant his wife a divorce in Gett earned him a short prison sentence, The Get by Taffy Brodesser-Akner, a new feature film in the making, explores how an Orthodox rabbi in New Jersey, Rabbi Mendel Epstein, kidnapped, beat, and tormented husbands unwilling to grant their wives a get.103 As the predicament of agunot has become a highly visible and debated issue in Israel’s social, political, and cultural realms, one aspect that neither media nor scholars have addressed is how to discern female agency in response to the applied divorce legislation, and to what extent it is women’s initiatives that have contributed to changes. Films, in contrast, especially those directed or co-directed by women, do explore precisely this clearly gendered dynamic.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  255 Tikva in Divorce, in order to call attention to the system’s injustice, is willing to give up her freedom and go to jail; Viviane in Gett is prepared to renounce any future intimate liaison with another man. Both are willing to make major concessions. Yet neither portrayal deprives the woman protagonist of her agency. Albeit in very different ways and with dissimilar outcomes, Tikva’s and Viviane’s refusal to play into the patriarchal structure’s demeaning of women who seek to be divorced from their husbands suggests perseverance and strength in the face of misogynist rulings. Tikva and Viviane, like other agunot in film, are not observant Jews; yet they are desperate to obtain the Orthodox-sanctioned document. Why did the directors of Divorce and of Gett choose to portray women who struggle with the current system of religious divorce rulings as secular? In reality, while Israel’s secular Jews make up nearly half of the country’s Jewish population, most of the initiatives to fight the current divorce statutes are launched by Orthodox women and organizations. Yet, the predicaments of the agunah status clearly affect nonreligious Jewish women as well. And these are at least equally likely as Orthodox women to watch these cinematic renderings of agunot stories, if not more. It is perhaps intended to raise the awareness of secular women and invite their increased participation in fighting the current status quo in divorce legislation. Much has been written about the unique landscape of feminist movements in Israel, and how the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has overshadowed struggles for gender equality and other feminist agendas.104 As Israeli women, however, have contributed to the laudable fight against human rights violations, specifically launched by Ashkenazi secular women, the latter have continuously ignored the voices of Mizrahi women, who in turn focus their efforts on feminist activism to reform racial discrimination within Israeli Jewish society.105 In other words, national priorities, such as political and social unrest, racism, and violence distract non-Orthodox Jewish women from focusing on gender inequality, especially as it relates to family law and divorce legislation. A small minority of Israelis are concerned about the racial and ethnic legislative hierarchy in Israel that discriminates against Palestinians and other non-Jewish citizens, insisting that this does not impact the country’s democratic nature. The exclusive control of the rabbinate in issues of marriage and divorce is the ultimate guarantee that the Jewish character of Israel cannot be challenged or altered. As Orthodox women fight to challenge the rabbinic legislation within the boundaries of halakhah, secular or traditionally oriented Israeli women will rather refuse to engage in the struggle to eliminate gender discrimination within the religious court system. In certain ways, by fighting a system controlled by mostly ultra-Orthodox men, they implicitly accept the men’s authority. But perhaps an underlying, possibly an unconscious or conscious motive to not actively oppose this control mechanism, is the fact that most Israelis, women and men, ultimately do not want to question the Jewish identity of the state of Israel and may thus tacitly believe that abolishing rabbinic legislation in matters of family status may contribute to giving up the legitimacy of a Jewish country. As opposed to cinematic representations of divorce, which invariably engage the problematic gender hierarchy of rabbinic divorce legislation—regardless

256  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film of whether the lens is a feminist one and the director a woman or a man—the considerably more common marriage plots, scenes, and ceremonies more easily support, even if only implicitly, the patriarchal structure of the popular wedding trope. While it is obvious that the happily-ever-after moment is still one of the most prevalent and effective tools to ensure a film’s wide distribution and commercial success, I have reviewed several examples of films that explore the psychological layers of fear (Fill the Void and The Wedding Plan), humiliation (Late Marriage), and abuse (Kaddosh) that accompany marriage without compromising either their quality or their commercial success. Indeed, Fill the Void, The Wedding Plan, Late Marriage, and Kaddosh all won multiple awards from the Israeli Film Academy, not to mention screenings and prizes at numerous international film festivals, as well as box office success. Portrayals of nuptials in film often find a way to spread the happily-ever-after myth, mostly with no critical message on gender inequality. The virginal white wedding gown, still the most common way to feature the bride in Israeli films, contributes to the visual effect of the Cinderella syndrome.106 Rooted in a custom that Ashkenazi Jews borrowed from their Christian neighbors, and recalling a nineteenth-century Victorian tradition, this visual marker of the Israeli bride is definitely not dictated by Jewish law.107 Yet it is the ceremony that not only in Jewish weddings but in weddings performed around the world, constitutes the primary locus for the construction of selves, especially gendered selves.108 And while the white dress in film narratives of weddings can be read as a universal signifier of the Western bride, or else of the Ashkenazified Jewish bride, or, still worse, of the “white race Jewish bride”—linking therefore renderings of the New and the (New) er Jewess more than any other film iconography—the wedding trope is undeniably the ultimate expression of a visually identifiable Jewish Israeli women’s identity. In most Israeli films, both featuring secular and religious communities and those directed by women, men, or mixed teams—the generally “white” kallah (bride) is the focus of attention. As Viola Tree has aptly described, the bride in wedding rituals is “the observed of all observers,” elegantly dressed and proceeding with her own and her families’ values on display.109 Or, more recently, Diane Gillespie stated, “Brides are stars of wedding dramas, ironically front and center in a public ritual by which they enter a traditionally private but increasingly contested gender role.”110 But it is film, the storyline and plot, the acting and camera work, including lighting, music, editing, dramatic effects, and most importantly the mind frame of the director, whether woman or man, that ultimately defines the level of women’s agency when they marry. The manner in which Nadia Yaqub discerns tension between the public and private realms in Palestinian wedding tropes pertains also to Jewish Israeli film. She observes: On the one hand, weddings are about the seal union of two adults and as such they are ceremonies treating the most private of human interactions. On the other hand, they act to codify and legitimize that sexual union for the community and/or state.111

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  257 And in this context, she observes that in wedding celebrations of Palestinian film it is specifically the women who “are depicted as bearers of culture and sustainers of life.”112 This description resonates with Nira Youval-Davis’s commentary on the relationship between the Israeli state and its religious laws, in particular with regard to marriage and divorce.113 She identifies women in Israeli society as the ultimate bearers of a collective ideology, a phenomenon that no other cinematic trope but the Jewish bride can sum up more effectively, visually and emotionally. It is she who, according to Jewish law, determines the religion of the couple’s and the state’s descendants. In that regard, it is the Jewish matrimonial unions that are the ultimate guarantor of the continuity of the Jewish state. And this significant role, which combines private and public responsibility, depending on the cinematic space and lens, can provide a woman protagonist in film with agency or, instead, deplete her of all strength and independence. How can we then best describe the difference between marriage and divorce plots in Israeli film, other than the former generally being a happy occasion, and the latter signaling an unfortunate turn of events? While cinematic representations of visually distinguishable Jewish brides only marginally changed from the early 1960s through contemporary cinematic, televised, and online renderings, explorations of their socioreligious contexts have become increasingly varied and complex. In other words, brides in recent Israeli movies have remained faithful to early cinematic renderings indicative of a collective Israeli identity, in contrast to the otherwise growing number of ethnic and religious identities and communities featured on screen, which suggests a broadening scope of character portrayals in the nation. Instead of the early focus on secularism, Jewish women (and men), embodied in the portrayal of a newer Jew(ess), can now embrace various forms of religious identities without compromising their Israeliness. Depending on her portrayal, however, her agency can be enhanced, diminished, or revoked. Unlike wedding ceremonies, which as subjects are as old as Israeli cinema, representations of divorce narratives in film were not introduced until the early 1990s. In this relatively short time span dedicated to exploring divorce on screen, gender inequality, barely addressed in wedding scenes, has been addressed explicitly, placing women’s discrimination in the forefront. And not surprisingly, the subject of agunot is one that has been—at least thus far—explored by either women directors or in films co-directed by a woman and a man. Film representations of weddings celebrate the continuity of Jewish traditions and life through procreation, as assured by none other than the Jewish female character—in most cases the visual and symbolic center of the screen frame. Explorations of divorce scenes and plots on screen, on the other hand, seem to fight the very burden of these same long-lasting traditions, framed by millennia-old rabbinic customs and laws. Notes 1 For critical perspectives on Kadosh, see Aliza Atik, “Calibrating the Female Body: Shame, Disgust, and the Recuperative Gaze in Amos Gitai’s Kadosh,” Shofar 32, no.

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2 (2014), 25–48; Rachel Harris, Warriors, Witches, Whores: Women in Israeli Cinema (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2017), 96–105. For recent statistics, including numbers relevant for marriage and divorce, see Gilad Malach and Lee Cahaner, “2018 Statistical Report on Ultra-Orthodox society in Israel,” The Israel Democracy Institute, December 19, 2018. See also, “Young Ultra-Orthodox Jews Increasingly Delaying Marriage—Report,” The Times of Israel, December 24, 2017. On the difference between biblical and Talmudic definitions of marriage and divorce and on more recent interpretations, see Samuel Daiches, “Divorce in Jewish Law,” Journal of Comparative Legislation and International Law, Third Series 8, no. 4 (1926), 215–24. On the relationship between state and religious laws, in particular with regard to marriage and divorce and the role of women as bearers of a collective ideology, see Nira Youval-Davis, “Bearers of the Collective. Women and Religious Legislation in Israel,” in Israeli Women’s Studies: A Reader, edited by Esther Fuchs (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2005), 121–32. According to Yaron Shemer, despite the increasingly complex character portrayals of Israelis in film, the latter medium fails to engage society from a truly intersectional perspective. See Yaron Shemer, “Failing Intersectionality: Gender, Ethnicity, and Religious Traditions in Recent Israeli Films,” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 36, no. 5 (2019), 365–91. On Jewish-Israeli identity on screen, see Lee Weinberg, “How to (Not So) Safely Dismantle the Bomb of On-Screen Jewish-Israeli Identity: The Synergies with Art and Television in the Representation of Jewish-Israeli Identity and What Can Be Learned from Them,” Jewish Film & New Media 4, no. 1 (2016), 109–38. See also, Yosfa Loshitzky, Identity Politics on the Israeli Screen (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001). The Christian, Muslim, and other religious minorities in Israel are not subject to Jewish family law. On the origins of the collective Israeli identity in Zionist discourse and history, see Baruch Kimmerling, “Between the Primordial and the Civil Definitions of the Collective Identity: Eretz Israel or the State of Israel?” in Comparative Social Dynamics. Essays in Honor of S. N. Eisenstad, edited by Eric Cohen et al. (New York: Routledge, 1985), 268–82. For brief overviews of the history of Israeli film and the various genres, see Miri Talmon and Yaron Peleg, “Introduction,” in Israeli Cinema. Identities in Motion, Israeli Cinema. Identities in Motion, edited by Miri Talmon and Yaron Peleg (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2011), ix–xvii; and more recently Dan Chyutin and Yael Mazor, “Israeli Cinema Studies: Mapping Out a Field,” Shofar 38, no. 1 (2020), 167–217. The Law of Return states that “Every Jew has the right to come to this country as an oleh.” The law was adjusted in 1970 to include non-Jews with a Jewish grandparent, and their spouses. On the Law of Return, see Martin Edelman, “Who is an Israeli?: ‘Halakah’ and Citizenship in the Jewish State,” Jewish Political Studies Review 10, no. 3/4 (1998), 87–115; and more recently David Ellenson, “‘Jewishness’ in Israel: Israel as a Jewish State,” in Essential Israel. Essays for the 21st Century, edited by Ilan Troen and Rachel Fish (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2017), 269–74. On the Nation-State Bill, see Raoul Wootliff, “Israel Passes Jewish State Law, Enshrining ‘National Home of the Jewish People’,” The Times of Israel, July 19, 2018. On the relationship between Orthodox Judaism and more liberal religious movements in Israel, see Ephraim Tabory, “The Israel Reform and Conservative Movements and the Market for Liberal Judaism,” in Jews in Israel. Contemporary Social and Cultural Patterns, edited by Uzi Rebhun and Chaim Waxman (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2004), 285–313. Reform rabbi Gilad Kariv may be the first non-Orthodox rabbi to become a member of the Knesset in 2021.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  259 10 For a concise overview of Jewish marriage and divorce, from biblical through rabbinic laws, including medieval, modern, and contemporary interpretations, see Matti Bunzl and Rachel Havrelock eds., The Marriage Issue, Association of Jewish Studies Perspectives. The Magazine of the Association for Jewish Studies (New York: Association for Jewish Studies, 2013). 11 Please note my own emphasis on the word “taken” here. On how the rabbinic texts on these issues are rooted in biblical narratives, see Judith Baskin, “Married Men,” in The Marriage Issue, 14–15. 12 On the fact that Israel is a family-oriented society, see for instance Liat Kulik, “Women’s Perceptions of Work, Family and Society: A Comparative Analysis of Israelis and Soviet Immigrants,” International Journal of Sociology of the Family 27, no. 2 (1997), 80. According to the Central Bureau of Statistics in 2019, over 50 percent of Israelis marry before the age of 25, with marriage rates among Palestinians and the ultraOrthodox being significantly higher. In the late 1980s, the percentage of those who never married by the age of 40 was two percent among females and four percent among males. See Ruth Katz and Yochanan Peres, “The Sociology of the Family in Israel: An Outline of Its Development from the 1950s to the 1980s,” European Sociological Review 2, no. 2 (1986), 153. 13 On this, see for instance Bluma Goldstein, “Jewish Marriage,” in The Marriage Issue, 6–7. 14 Among the first to examine this issue of acquisition is Boaz Cohen who wrote in the 1930s. More recently, in the late 1980s, Judith Romney Wegner has explored the fact that women were acquired by their husbands. Her work has influenced new generations of Talmud scholars interested in the status of women. See, Boaz Cohen, “An Essay on Possession in Jewish Law,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research, 1934–1935, Vol. 6 (1934–1935), 131–4; and Judith Romney Wegner, Chattel or Person? The Status of Women in the Mishnah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988). 15 On the economic stipulations of marriage, see Deborah Greniman, “The Origins of the Ketubah: Deferred Payment or Cash up Front?” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 4 (2001), 84–118. On the origins of the ketubah as a payment made by the husband to the wife in case of divorce, see Michael Satlow, “Reconsidering the Rabbinic ketubah Payment,” in The Jewish Family in Antiquity, edited by Shaye Cohen (Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2020) 133–51. He dates this to the first century CE. 16 On how various minor changes were introduced from antiquity through the Middle Ages, see Ira Bedzow and Michael Broyde, “The Multifarious Models for Jewish Marriage,” in The Marriage Issue, 52–3. 17 The millet system during Ottoman rule acknowledged each community’s authority in overseeing its own communal affairs. See Carmel Shalev, “Freedom of Association in Marriage and in Cohabitation—Cohabitation and Marriage Outside the Religious Law,” in Women’s Status in Israeli Law and Society, edited by Frances Raday et al. (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1995), 464 [Hebrew]. 18 A noteworthy modification that was introduced under Israeli rule is that the religious tribunals were no longer authorized to oversee adoption inheritance, wills, and legacies. See Ariel Rosen-Zvi, “Family and Inheritance law,” in Introduction to the Law of Israel, edited by Amos Shapira and Karen DeWitt-Arar (The Hague: Kluwer Law International, 1995), 76–7. 19 Ruth Levush, “Israel: Spousal Agreements for Couples Not Belonging to Any Religion—A Civil Marriage Option?” The Law Library of Congress, Global Legal Research Directorate (Washington: Library of Congress, 2015), 3. 20 Zvi Triger, “Freedom from Religion in Israel: Civil Marriages and Cohabitation of Jews Enter the Rabbinical Courts,” Israel Studies Review 27, no. 2, Special Issue: Law, Politics, Justice, and Society: Israel in a Comparative Context (2012), 5.

260  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film 21 Triger, “Freedom from Religion in Israel,” 13. 22 For statistics in early 2002, see Ruth Halperin-Kaddari and Inbal Karo eds., Women and the Family in Israel: Statistical Bi-Annual Report (Ramat Gan: Ruth and Emanuel Rackman Center for the Advance of the Status of Women, 2009), 33 [Hebrew]. For both early and later statistics, see Levush, “Spousal Agreements for Couples,” 5. 23 Triger, “Freedom from Religion in Israel,” 13. 24 Asher Arian and Ayala Keissar-Sugarmen, A Portrait of Israeli Jews: Beliefs, Observance, and Values of Israeli Jews, 2009 (Jerusalem: Guttman Center for Surveys of the Israel Democracy Institute for the Avi Chai-Israel Foundation, 2011), 16, 18, 42. See also Triger, “Freedom from Religion in Israel,” 13. 25 On their full statement regarding “Freedom of Marriage,” see their website: http://bfree​ .org​.il​/freedom​-of​-marriage. 26 Levush, “Spousal Agreements for Couples,” 9–10. 27 Levush, “Spousal Agreements for Couples,” 13. 28 On the New Jew, mostly in the context of the second generation of Zionist Israelis, see Oz Almog, The Creation of the New Jew: The Sabra (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). On the New Jew in early Zionist film, see Ariel Feldman, “Filming the Homeland. Cinema in Eretz Israel and the Zionist Movement, 1917– 1939,” in Israeli Cinema, 3–15; on the new Jew in early Israeli film, see Nurith Gertz and Yael Munk, “Israeli Cinema: Hebrew Identity/Jewish Identity,” in New Jewish Time; Jewish Culture in a Secular Age: An Encyclopedic View, Vol. 3, edited by Dan Miron and Hanan Hever (Jerusalem: Keter, 2007), 269–76 [Hebrew]. On the representation of the New Jew and the New Jewess in mostly non-Israeli films, see Nathan Abrams, The New Jew in Film: Exploring Jewishness and Judaism in Contemporary Cinema (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2012). 29 Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 2–3. 30 Orly Lubin has been the first scholar to systematically explore representations of women in Israeli film. See Orly Lubin, “Body and Territory: Women in Israeli Cinema,” Israeli Studies 4, no. 1 (1999), 175–87; Orly Lubin, “The Woman as Other in Israeli Cinema,” in Israeli Women’s Studies: 301–16. The first book-length study focusing on women in Israeli film was written by Rachel Harris. 31 See among others Nir Cohen, Soldiers, Rebels, and Drifters: Gay Representation in Israeli Cinema (Detroit: Wayne State Press, 2012); Gilad Padva, “Discursive Identities in the (R)evolution of the New Israeli Queer Cinema,” in Israeli Cinema, 313–25; Raz Yosef, Beyond Flesh: Queer Masculinities and Nationalism in Israeli Cinema (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2004). 32 Examples include My Michael (1974, by Dan Wolman); Hamsin (1982, by Daniel Wachsmann); The Lover (1986, by Micha Bat-Adam); Crossfire (1989, by Gideon Ganani); Happiness Wrapped in a Blanket (2014, by Yosi Artzi). 33 A discussion of early Israeli cinema and the quintessential representation of Ashkenazi and Mizrahi Jews cannot take place without referencing Ella Shohat’s pioneering study on Israeli cinema. Ella Shohat, Israeli Cinema: East/West and the Politics of Representation (London: I. B. Tauris, 2010). Originally published in 1989. Her scholarly work was dedicated to examining the so-called “question of the Arab-Jew” and how in the wake of colonial modernity, even prior to the Zionist movement, Orientalist fantasies and Eurocentric epistemologies, contributed to racialized tropes that continued to affect Jews of Near-Eastern and African origins well after the foundation of the State of Israel. Her critical exploration of the Mizrahi identity in Israeli society, specifically through the lens of film, has contributed to a better understanding of the dynamics between Ashkenazi and Sephardic communities. 34 Other than Shohat’s work on ethnic, racial, socio-political, and gender discourses in film, significant contributions include contributions by Régine-Mihal Friedman, Nurith

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Gertz, and Ilan Avisar. Other genres countering the early Bourekas comedies and melodramas as well as the early statehood Heroic-Nationalist Cinema (1950s and 1960s) include the so-called Personal Cinema Movement (1960s and 1970s), the Palestinian Wave and the Cinema of the Outsider and the Outcast (1980s), New Mizrahi Cinema (1990s–), the Pierogi Films and Russian Israeli Cinema (1990s–), and finally, Queer Cinema (1990s–), most of which are either secondary or irrelevant categories for the present inquiry. Also, beyond the scope of marriage and divorce in film are a number of important theme-oriented categories that deal with, among others, the Holocaust, the military, war, the Israel-Palestine conflict, Palestinian identity, Zionism, and postZionism. Judd Ne'eman, “Israeli Cinema,” in Companion Encyclopedia of Middle Eastern and North African Film, edited by Oliver Leaman (London: Routledge, 2001), 307. Shohat, Israeli Cinema, 14; Yaron Peleg, “From Black to White: Changing Images of Mizrahim in Israeli Cinema,” Israel Studies 13, no. 2 (2008), 123. Ella Shohat qualifies Sallah Shabati as a classic example of Foucauldian power relations that misrepresents and denigrates Mizrahim as a means of control. See Ella Shohat, “Sallah Shabati: From Nowhere to Nothing,” Proza 100 (1988), 169–71 [Hebrew]. In Yaron Peleg’s view, her critique is based on postcolonial principles that are often ill-suited to the Israeli case. See, Peleg, “From Black to White,” 124, 139–40. On how the film criticizes Zionist socialist ideals, see Judd Ne’eman, “The Death Mask of the Moderns: A Genealogy of ‘New Sensibility’ Cinema in Israel,” Israel Studies 4, no. 1 (1999), 108. On the Ashkenazi background of the film team, see among others Peleg, “From Black to White,” 123. See also Yael Munk, “‘Sallah Shabati’ as a Precursor of Subversive Popular Cinema in Israel,” Pe'amim: Studies in Oriental Jewry 135, Modern Times (2013), 150 [Hebrew]. On the fact that Bourekas films were mainly produced and directed by Ashkenazi filmmakers and often used Ashkenazi actors to play the roles of Mizrahim more generally, see Dorit Naaman, “Orientalism as Alterity in Israeli Cinema,” Cinema Journal 40, no. 4 (2001), 37–8. Peleg, “From Black to White,” 123. and Yaron Peleg, “Secularity and Its Discontents: Religiosity in Contemporary Israeli Culture,” Jewish Film & New Media 3, no. 1 (2015), 9. Peleg, “From Black to White,” 126. On a general discussion of Kazablan, see Peleg, “From Black to White,” 130–4; Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 9, 279. On the orientalist gaze in Kazablan, see Daniel Monterescu, “The Bridled ‘Bride of Palestine’: Urban Orientalism and the Zionist Quest for Place,” in Jaffa Shared and Shattered: Contrived Coexistence in Israel/ Palestine (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2015), 79–80. On how the story contrived, according to Raz Yosef, a “macho rescue fantasy,” see Raz Yosef, “Ethnicity and Sexual Politics: The Invention of Mizrahi Masculinity in Israeli Cinema,” Theory and Criticism 25 (2004), 52 [Hebrew]. For the term New Mizrahi Cinema, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 20, 137. On Mizrahi Identity Films, see Peleg, “From Black to White,” 123. Regarding the distinction between Post-Bourekas and Neo-Boureaks, see Rami Kimchi, “A Shtetl in Disguise: Israeli Films and Their Origins in Classical Yiddish Literature,” PhD dissertation, University of Michigan, 2008, 269–70; Yaron Shemer, “Trajectories of Mizrachi Cinema,” in Israeli Cinema, 122. On “Ashkenazification” or acting white or passing (in Hebrew, hishtaknezut), see Orna Sasson-Levy and Shoshana Avi, “‘Passing’ as (Non)Ethnic: The Israeli Version of Acting White,” Sociological Inquiry 83, no. 3 (2013), 448–72. Kimchi, A Shtetl in Disguise, 269–70. Shemer, “Trajectories of Mizrachi Cinema,” 122.

262  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film 46 See, Shemer, “Trajectories of Mizrachi Cinema,” 122. 47 On Lovesick on Nana Street, see Shemer, “Trajectories of Mizrachi Cinema,” 120–33. 48 Based on the Mishnaic understanding of kiddushin (Kid. 2s), there were originally three ways to affect this bond between man and woman: through kesef (money), shetar (dee), and bi’ah (cohabitation). While shetar and bi’ah are traditions that were abandoned, kesef survived in the tradition of the husband placing a ring on the right forefinger of the bride. See Ronald Eisenberg, Jewish Traditions: A Jewish Publication Society (JPS) Guide (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2000), 33. 49 During antiquity, kidushin and nisuin were two separate parts of the marriage ceremony, in which the second ceremony was celebrated under a chuppah, combined into one marriage ceremony during the Middle Ages, a tradition that has maintained itself to this day. See Eisenberg, Jewish Traditions, 32–4. 50 On the biblical and Talmudic origins of the various Jewish wedding traditions and divorce regulations, see Eisenberg, Jewish Traditions, 28–61, 62–73. 51 On Colombian Love, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 161, 278. 52 On Tel Aviv Stories, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 18–19, 171–3, 182, 187, 248, 281. 53 For an overview of movies that feature religiosity in Israeli film, see Yaron Peleg, Directed by God: Jewishness in Contemporary Israeli Film and Television (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2016), 1–22. From a gendered perspective, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 91–122. 54 On the impact of the political landscape on film, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 92; on religification see, Peleg, “Religiosity in Contemporary Israeli Culture,” 3–4. 55 Yaron Peleg has argued that the representation of Akiva in Shtisel, with his artistic interests, is an unrealistic representation of the Haredi world. See, Yaron Peleg, “On Shtisel (or the Haredi as Bourgeois),” Jewish Film & New Media 3, no. 1 (2015), 113–17. Karen Skinazi has explored the realistic aspect of art and culture within the ultra-Orthodox community, both in the US and in Israel, convincingly arguing for a realistic representation of the characters in Shtisel. See Karen Skinazi, Women of Valor: Orthodox Jewish Troll Fighters, Crime Writers, and Rock Stars in Contemporary Literature and Culture (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2018), 174, 180–2. On the visual and performing arts in the Haredi world, see also Rachel Harris and Karen Skinazi, “‘Was I Afraid to Get Up and Speak My Mind? No, I wasn’t’: The Feminism and Art of Jewish Orthodox and Haredi Women,” Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 38, no. 2 (2020), 1–34; Heather Munro, “Navigating Change: Agency Identity, and Embodiment in Haredi Women’s Dance and Theater,” Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 38, no. 2 (2020), 93–124. 56 On Kuni Lemel, see Gideon Kouts, “The Representation of the ‘Foreigner’ in Israeli Films (1966–1976),” Revue européenne des études hébraïques; hors-série: Cinquante ans de littérature israélienne, Vol. 2; l’Europe et la littérature israélienne (1999), 82, 95–7; and Peleg, “Religiosity in Contemporary Israeli Culture,” 6–14. On Tevye and His Seven Daughters, see Miri Talmon, “A Touch Away from Cultural Others: Negotiating Israeli Jewish Identity on Television,” Shofar 31, no. 2, Israel and Jewish Studies (2013), 58. 57 On A Touch Away, see Talmon, “A Touch Away”; and Peleg, “Religiosity in Contemporary Israeli Culture,” 15–19. 58 Marlyn Vinig, Haredi Cinema (Tel Aviv: Resling, 2011). 59 On Lev Tahor, see Vinig, Haredi Cinema, 44, 70, 74, 96, 102. On the experience of women who watch films produced for exclusively female audiences, see Matan Aharoni, “Eliciting “Kosher Emotions” In Ultra-Orthodox Jewish Women’s Film,” in The Emotions Industry, edited by Matan Moshe (New York: Nova Publishers, 2014), 95–116. 60 On Orthodox women filmmakers, see Valeria Seigelsheifer and Tova Hartman, “Staying and Critiquing. Israeli Orthodox Women Filmmakers,” Israel Studies Review 34, no. 1 (2019), 110–30.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  263 61 On Fill the Void from a feminist perspective, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 93–4, 103–7; and Skinazi, Women of Valor, 180, 189. On The Wedding Plan from a gendered angle, see Skinazi, Women of Valor, 218–22. Regarding Shtisel, Yaron Peleg argues that the representation of the characters is idealized and specifically adjusted for a secular audience using secular tropes. See Peleg, “On Shtisel,” 113–7. Karen Skinazi argues against Peleg, arguing for a realistic portrayal. See Skinazi, Women of Valor, 174–216. Peleg, “Religiosity in Contemporary Israeli Culture,” 3–24. Yael Friedman and Yohai Hakak, “Jewish Revenge: Haredi Action in the Zionist Sphere,” Jewish Film & New Media 3, no. 1 (2015), 48–76. 62 For helpful statistics regarding Israel’s ultra-Orthodox population and specifically numbers on the average changing marriage age, see “Young ultra-Orthodox Jews.” 63 On the support for the positive portrayals of religious Jews in Israeli film, see Galeet Dardashti, “Televised Agendas: How Global Funders Make Israeli TV More ‘Jewish’,” Jewish Film and New Media 3, no. 1 (2015), 77–103. 64 Romney Wegner, Chattel or Person? 65 Bonna Devora Haberman, The Passionate Torah: Sex and Judaism (New York: New York University Press, 2009), 36. 66 Haberman, The Passionate Torah, 38–9. 67 Goldstein, “Jewish Marriage,” 6. 68 Goldstein, “Jewish Marriage,” 6. 69 Other than Bluma Goldstein, these include Rachel Adler, Judith Baskin, Lois Dubin, Gail Labovitz, Susan Shapiro, and Dvora Weisberg. See Bluma Goldstein, Enforced Marginality: Jewish Narratives on Abandoned Women (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 1–9; Rachel Adler, “Critiquing and Rethinking Kiddushin,” in The Marriage Issue, 44–5; Rachel Adler, Engendering Judaism: An Inclusive Theology and Ethics (Philadelphia and Jerusalem: The Jewish Publication Society, 1998), 169–208; Judith Baskin, Midrashic Women: Formations of the Feminine in Rabbinic Literature (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press–UPNE, 2002); Lois Dubin, “One Jewish Woman, Two Husbands, Three Laws: The Making of Civil Marriage and Divorce in a Revolutionary Age,” in The Marriage Issue, 24–5; Gail Labovitz, Marriage and Metaphor: Constructions of Gender in Rabbinic Literature (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2009); Susan Shapiro, “Reading Jewish Philosophy: What’s Marriage Got to Do with It?, in The Marriage Issue, 18–19; and Dvora Weisberg, Levirate Marriage and the Family in Ancient Judaism (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2009). 70 On attempts to reinterpret halakhah with regard to marriage and divorce with the goal to make it gender equal, see Gail Labovitz, “‘With Righteousness and with Justice’: To Create Equitable Jewish Divorce, Create Equitable Jewish Marriage,” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 31, New Historical and SocioLegal Perspectives on Jewish Divorce (2017), 91–122. On the Wissenschaft des Judentums and how it reformed Jewish religion and its legislative system, see Harvey Hill, “The Science of Reform: Abraham Geiger and the Wissenschaft des Judentums,” Modern Judaism 27, no. 3 (2007), 329–49. On how Reform and Conservative movements in Israel began to impact the Orthodox establishment beginning in the 1960s and 1970s, see Tabory, “The Influence of Liberal Judaism on Israeli Religious Life,” 183–203. 71 The majority of men who study these regulations reinforce their relevance within the context of Israeli society. Only a small minority studies these texts from a critical, feminist viewpoint. On kollelim in Israel and their promotion of long-term full-time study, see Daniel Schiffman and Yoel Finkelman, “The Kollel Movement in the State of Israel: A Pedagogic and Ideological Typology,” Israel Studies Review 29, no. 1 (2014), 106–28. On the history of the rabbinical courts in Israel, see Martin Edelman,

264  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film

72

73 74 75

76

77

78 79

80 81 82 83 84

“The Rabbinical Courts in the Evolving Political Culture of Israel,” Middle Eastern Studies 16, no. 3 (1980), 145–66. On the male-dominated court and its control over the Commission to Appoint Religious Court Judges, which since early 2002 includes women, see Sharon Shenhav, “At Issue: Choosing Religious Court Judges in Israel: A Case Study,” Jewish Political Studies Review 18, no. 3/4 (2006), 141–9. On the appointment of a woman to serve as a judicial assistant in an Israeli rabbinic court, see “Woman’s appointment to an Israeli rabbinic court is seen as a breakthrough,” Jewish Telegraphic Agency, August 5, 2018. On the lack of intersectional perspectives in Israeli films, see Shemer, “Failing Intersectionality.” See “Israel’s Female Filmmakers Get Big Boost with ‘Women in the Picture’,” Israel21c, November 18, 2007. Women have contributed greatly to shaping Israeli film, as directors, scriptwriters, actors, and in various other functions and professions, on screen and behind the scenes. Ellidah Geyrah’s Before Tomorrow (1969) was the first woman in Israel to direct a feature film. See Amy Kronish, “Filmmakers, Israeli” Jewish Women: A Comprehensive Historical Encyclopedia 27 (2009), Jewish Women’s Archives; and Tom Grater, “Women directors on the rise in Israel,” Screen Daily, July 14, 2017. Today nearly 30 percent of film directors in Israel are women, as opposed to only 12 percent in Europe and five percent in the US. Ella Shohat, “Making the Silences Speak in Israeli Cinema,” in Israeli Women’s Studies, 291–300; Nurith Gertz, Motion Fiction: Israeli Fiction in Film (Ramat Aviv: Open University Press, 1993) [Hebrew]; Lubin, “Body and Territory,” 175–87; Lubin, “The Woman as Other in Israeli Cinema”; Yael Munk, Exiled in their Borders: Israeli Cinema between the Two Intifadas (Ra’anana: Open University of Israel Press, 2012) [Hebrew]. Yosef, Beyond Flesh; Yosef, “Ethnicity and Sexual Politics,” 31–62; Raz Yosef, The Politics of Loss and Trauma in Contemporary Israeli Cinema (London and New York: Routledge, 2011); Raz Yosef, “Resisting Genealogy: Diasporic Grief and Heterosexual Melancholia in the Israeli Films Three Mothers and Late Marriage,” Jewish Film & New Media 4, no. 2 (2016), 161–218. Cohen, Soldiers, Rebels, and Drifters. On the “Mizrahi macho” and the “Ashkenazi laflaf,” see Peleg, “From Black to White,” 131, 133, 135, 138–9. Films on relationships between Jewish-Israeli women and Palestinian men include Dan Wolman’s My Michael (1974), Gideon Ganani’s Hamsin (1986), Gideon Ganani’s Crossfire (1989), Yosi Artzi’s Happiness Wrapped in a Blanket (2014), Noga Nezer’s My Arab Friend (2015), and Muayad Alayan’s The Reports of Sarah and Saleem (2018). Rare examples of movies that explore lesbian relations include Michal Bat Adam’s Moments de la vie d’une femme (Moments in the Life of a Woman; (1979)), and Tamar Glezerman’s The Other War (2008). In Shahar Rozen’s Round Trip (2003) and Avi Nesher’s The Secrets (2007), the plots end with heterosexual marriages overpowering lesbian love and desire. On Round Trip, see Goel Pinto, “More than Meets the Eye,” Haaretz, March 2, 2006. Laura Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures (London: Palgrave, 1989). Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures, 25. E. Ann Kaplan, Women and Film: Both Sides of the Camera (London and New York: Routledge, 2013), 311. See also, E. Ann Kaplan, “Is the Gaze Male?” in Feminism and Film, edited by E. Ann Kaplan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 119–38. Kaplan, Women and Film, 206. Lubin, “The Woman as Other in Israeli Cinema,” 304. See also Janet Burstein, “Like Windows in the Wall: Four Documentaries by Israeli Women,” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women's Studies & Gender Issues 25 (2013), 131.

Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  265 85 Lubin, “The Woman as Other in Israeli Cinema,” 304. 86 Yosef, “Resisting Genealogy,” 175. 87 On Mizrahi women and their portrayals as witches, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 123–47; and on their portrayals as prostitutes, see Harris, Women in Israeli Cinema, 149–84. 88 On the feminist stance in Burstein’s films, see Skinazi, Women of Valor, 189–92; and Karen Skinazi, “The Religious Feminism of Rama Burstein’s Romances,” in Reel Gender in Palestinian and Israeli Film, edited by Atshan and Galor, 29–56. 89 On yibbum, see Aharon Gaimani, “Marriage and Divorce Customs in Yemen and Eretz Israel,” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women's Studies & Gender Issues 11, Yemenite Jewish Women (2006), 43–83. 90 Karen Skinazi presented a paper on “The Reluctant Feminism of Rama Burshtein’s Religious Romances,” at the conference I co-organized at Brown University in February 2020, entitled Gender in Israeli and Palestinian Film. I am grateful to her for calling the participants’ attention to this fact by sharing several movie clips. 91 On the trilogy, see Macabit Abramson, “The ‘New Psyche’: A Model of Different Femininity in Film: Viviane Amsalem, Heroine of the Trilogy by Ronit and Shlomi Elkabetz,” Jewish Film & New Media 4, no. 1, Genres in Jewish and Israeli Cinema (2016), 43–67. 92 Rachel Levmore, “Is ‘Gett’ a Realistic Portrayal of Israeli Divorce?” Forward, February 10, 2015. 93 On the thousands of agunot in Israel, see Karin Carmit Yefet, “Unchaining the Agunot: Enlisting the Israeli Constitution in the Service of Women’s Marital Freedom,” Yale Journal of Law & Feminism 20, no. 2 (2008); and Erica Chernofsky, “Plight of Jewish ‘Chained Women’ Trapped in Broken Marriages,” BBC News, March 134, 2014. 94 On Unchained, see Smadar Shiloni, “The Creator of ‘Matir Agunot’: ‘The Rabbinic Court is Angry’,” Ynet, September 1, 2020 [Hebrew];” Gadi Solomon, “‘Matir Agunot’: Quality Content on the Stairs of the Rabbinical Court,” Israel Hayom, October 31, 2019 [Hebrew]; and Aryanah Melamed, “‘Matir Agunot’: A Wonderful Show that Will Never Get the Viewership it Deserves,” Haaretz, July 11, 2020 [Hebrew]. 95 On religious women’s activism trying to reform women’s rights to divorce in Israel, see Tanya Zion-Waldoks, “Politics of Devoted Resistance: Agency, Feminism, and Religion among Orthodox Agunah Activities in Israel,” Gender and Society 29, no. 1 (2015), 73–97; Andrew Tobin, “How Israeli Women Are Gaining in the Fight for Jewish Divorce,” Jewish Telegraphic Agency, August 22, 2016. 96 On these organizations, most among them based in the US, see Sonia Zylberberg, “International Coalition for Agunah Rights (ICAR),” The Encyclopedia of Jewish Women. See: https://jwa​.org​/encyclopedia​/article​/international​-coalition​-for​-agunah​ -rights​-icar; On ICAR (The International Coalition for Agunah Rights) and its current member organizations, see: http://icar​.org​.il​/icar​-currentmembers​.html. 97 On Mekudeshet, see Ran Tal and Anat Even, “Interview with Anat Zuria,” Takriv 5 (2015), 1–7 [Hebrew]. 98 Nirit Anderman and Yair Ettinger, “Rabbinical Judges to Watch Screening of Gett – A Popular Israeli Movie That Indicts Them,” Haaretz, November 12, 2014. 99 Levmore, “Is ‘Gett’ a Realistic Portrayal of Israeli Divorce?” 100 Anderman and Ettinger “Rabbinical Judges to Watch Screening of Gett.” 101 On these measures and the added sanctions in 2017, see Ruth Levush, “Releasing Israeli Agunot from the Chains of Marriage,” The Library of Congress, May 22, 2017. See: https://blogs​.loc​.gov​/law​/2017​/05​/releasing​-israeli​-agunot​-from​-the​-chains​-of​ -marriage/. 102 Two husbands, who were subjected to twelfth-century social religious sanctions not expressly authorized under Israeli law, petitioned to the Israeli Supreme Court. See Ruth Levush, “Israel: Extrajudicial Sanctions Against Husbands Noncompliant with

266  Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film

103 104

105 106

107 108

109 110 111 112 113

Rabbinical Divorce Rulings,” Library of Congress, May 2017. See: https://www​.loc​ .gov​/law​/help​/divorce​-rulings​/israel​-divorce​-rulings​.pdf. “New Film to Tell Story of Rabbi who Tortured Men to Force Divorces,” The Times of Israel, September 20, 2020. See for instance, Ruth Halperin-Kaddari and Yaacov Yadgar, “Between Universal Feminism and Particular Nationalism: Politics, Religion and Gender (In)Equality in Israel,” Third World Quarterly 31, no. 6, The Unhappy Marriage of Religion and Politics: Problems and Pitfalls for Gender Equality (2010), 905–20. On feminist movements in Israel, and the Ashkenazi discrimination of Mizrahi voices, see Smadar Lavie, “Mizrahi Feminism and the Question of Palestine,” Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies 7, no. 2 (2011), 56–88. A term coined by Colette Dowling, who described women’s fear of independence as an unconscious desire to be taken care of by others and who commonly searches for her “prince charming” to come and save her. See Colette Dowling, The Cinderella Complex: Women’s Hidden Fear of Independence (New York: Pocket Books, 1982). On Jewish wedding customs and gowns, see Anita Diamant, Choosing a Jewish Life. A Handbook for People Converting to Judaism and for Their Family and Friends (New York: Schocken Books, 2016), 175. See among others, Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”: Poetry as Cultural Practice in a North Yemeni Tribe (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 109–26; Walter Edwards, Modern Japan through Its Weddings: Gender, Person, and Society in Ritual Portrayal (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1989), 114–34; Laurel Kendall, Getting Married in Korea: Of Gender, Morality, and Modernity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 1–24; Elizabeth Freeman, The Wedding Complex: Forms of Belonging in Modern American Culture (Durham: Duke University Press, 2002). Viola Tree, Can I Help You? Your Manners—Menus—Amusements—Friends— Charades—Make-Ups—Travel—Calling—Children—Love Affairs (London: Hogarth Press, 1937), 123. Diane F. Gillespie, “Wedding Rituals: Julia Strachey, Virginia Woolf, and Viola Tree,” Woolf Studies Annual 19, Special Focus: Virginia Wools and Jews (2013), 189. Nadia Yaqub, “The Palestinian Cinematic Wedding,” Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies 3, no. 2 (2007), 57. Yaqub, “The Palestinian Cinematic Wedding,” 78. Youval-Davis, “Bearers of the Collective.”

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Marriage and Divorce in Israeli Film  269 Harris, Rachel and Karen Skinazi. “‘Was I Afraid to Get Up and Speak My Mind? No, I Wasn’t’: The Feminism and Art of Jewish Orthodox and Haredi Women.” Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 38, no. 2 (2020): 1–34. Hill, Harvey. “The Science of Reform: Abraham Geiger and the Wissenschaft des Judentums.” Modern Judaism 27, no. 3 (2007): 329–349. “Israel’s Female Filmmakers Get Big Boost with ‘Women in the Picture’.” Israel21c, November 18, 2007. Kaplan, E. Ann. “Is the Gaze Male?” In Feminism and Film, edited by E. Ann Kaplan, 119–138. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. ———. Women and Film: Both Sides of the Camera. New York: Routledge, 2013. Katz, Ruth and Yochanan Peres. “The Sociology of the Family in Israel: An Outline of Its Development from the 1950s to the 1980s.” European Sociological Review 2, no. 2 (1986): 148–159. Kendall, Laurel. Getting Married in Korea: Of Gender, Morality, and Modernity. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996. Kimchi, Rami. “A Shtetl in Disguise: Israeli Films and Their Origins in Classical Yiddish Literature.” Unpublished PhD dissertation, Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan, 2008. Kimmerling, Baruch. “Between the Primordial and the Civil Definitions of the Collective Identity: Eretz Israel or the State of Israel?” In Comparative Social Dynamics. Essays in Honor of S. N. Eisenstadt, edited by Erik Cohen, Moshe Lissak, and Uri Almagor, 268–282. London and New York: Routledge, 1985. Kouts, Gideon. “The Representation of the ‘Foreigner’ in Israeli Films (1966–1976).” Revue européenne des études hébraïques; hors-série: cinquante ans de littérature israélienne 2, l’Europe et la littérature israélienne (1999): 80–109. Kronish, Amy. “Filmmakers, Israeli.” Jewish Women: A Comprehensive Historical Encyclopedia 27 (2009), Jewish Women’s Archives. https://jwa​.org​/encyclopedia​/article​ /filmmakers​-israeli. Kulik, Liat. “Women’s Perceptions of Work, Family and Society: A Comparative Analysis of Israelis and Soviet Immigrants.” International Journal of Sociology of the Family 27, no. 2 (1997): 79–93. Labovitz, Gail. Marriage and Metaphor: Constructions of Gender in Rabbinic Literature. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2009. ———. “‘With Righteousness and with Justice’: To Create Equitable Jewish Divorce, Create Equitable Jewish Marriage.” Nashim: A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 31, New Historical and Socio-Legal Perspectives on Jewish Divorce (2017): 91–122. Lavie, Smadar. “Mizrahi Feminism and the Question of Palestine.” Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies 7, no. 2 (2011): 56–88. Levmore, Rachel. “Is ‘Gett’ a Realistic Portrayal of Israeli Divorce?” Forward, February 10, 2015. Levush, Ruth. “Israel: Spousal Agreements for Couples Not Belonging to Any Religion—A Civil Marriage Option?” The Law Library of Congress, Global Legal Research Directorate, 1–13. Washington, DC: Library of Congress, 2015. ———. “Israel: Extrajudicial Sanctions Against Husbands Noncompliant with Rabbinical Divorce Rulings.” Library of Congress, May 2017. ———. “Releasing Israeli Agunot from the Chains of Marriage.” The Library of Congress, May 22, 2017. Loshitzky, Yosfa. Identity Politics on the Israeli Screen. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001.

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Conclusion Patriarchy and Feminism

The four stories I have selected to illustrate the history of Jewish women bring to life the silenced bodies, faces, and minds of countless figures who together provide us with a novel understanding of how a patriarchal structure—no matter how potent and persistent—is ultimately incapable of eclipsing female agency. Indeed, Jewish women, much like women in their surrounding communities, have found ways not only to participate in cultural history and identity politics but to shape them in significant ways. My inquiries have come full circle, beginning with a ketubah and marriage in antiquity and ending with marriage and divorce in the present. It would not have been surprising to discover in this study a linear narrative of improved gender equality developing in parallel to a diminishing level of male power. But history does not reveal such a story. Certainly not in the context of the issues I focused on within the communities, places, and timeframes I have chosen. It appears that, just as there are persistent indications of women’s agency throughout Jewish history, so does gender inequality endure. In other words, Jewish women’s agency is neither a recent nor a novel phenomenon that has always found ways to enrich and to shape Jewish practice and beliefs but also means of influencing, altering, and resisting certain rules and traditions. There are indeed clear signs of women disrupting men’s project of shaping women’s bodies, appearances, and performances from antiquity through the present. Thus, while we cannot state that patriarchy is a matter of the past, neither is women’s agency an issue of the present alone. What are then the forces that have helped to create these recurrent or indeed persistent gender dynamics? It seems, based on the results of this journey through select episodes in Jewish chronicles, that the memory of the biblical past, and later the legacy of both the biblical and Talmudic precedents, have produced a sort of mythical structure of authority, where the gender binary of female and male usually implies a strict hierarchy. This mythical past that Mircea Eliade refers to as “in illo tempore”—religious time, circular in contrast to linear, historical time, and which persists in the form of recurrent rituals, beliefs, and other sacred activities—can be applied to our intertemporal exploration of Judaism.1 Using Eliade’s argument, I propose understanding the process of memory, or remembering, a condition that produces a presence of authority. In other words, the power of the scriptures that together stand for the divine word, judgment, and omnipotence is transmitted and administered through the male text and voice. The DOI:  10.4324/9781003440499-6

274 Conclusion authority is recollected and repeatedly reaffirmed through recurrent principles and practices that define Jewish culture and identity, not unlike Butler’s understanding of the “compulsory reiterative or ritual practice” that defines gender and sex.2 A fundamental aspect of Jewish culture and the performance of female agency—or to adopt Butler’s notion of process as described in her Bodies That Matter: the performativity of female agency—is to be understood within the context of a structurally robust gender binary and hierarchy that remains ubiquitous throughout the various historical contexts I have examined. The biblical and rabbinic legacies have justified a societal structure in which men aspire to command women’s bodies, their social appearance and performance, their ritual and spiritual roles, and most importantly their sexuality. While I could have framed or reduced the four case studies presented here to questions of sexuality only, embedding the biologically and socially defined characteristics of Jewish women into a broader context of ethnic, cultural, and national identity markers helped me to discern the complexities of a gendered history. The purpose of exploring gender norms and hierarchies in diverse contexts and from multiple angles aims to challenge the common understanding of female agency in the context of a male-dominated social structure and as exclusively in relation to power. My portraits of Jewish women in different spatial and temporal contexts try to resist the temptation of studying Jewish women through an exclusively androcentric textual lens and thus reducing them to what Rachel Adler has described as the “pornographic gaze” or what Ken Koltun-Fromm calls a “sexualized, reductive, and objectifying vision.”3 The Jewish biblical and rabbinic heritage is commonly understood as reliant primarily on texts that until modern times have largely excluded women from writing, reading, copying, editing, studying, and interpreting. In other words, appreciating the foundations and developments of Jewish women’s lives over time, exclusively in light of the ancient scriptures and their later interpretations—no matter how gender-sensitive—distorts, and indeed, discriminates against a significant segment of the population that has been defined and has perceived itself as Jewish. Images—moving and still, objects, artifacts, architectures, and films, despite their own biases and limitations, have also contributed to crafting this distinct culture, one that clearly and unambiguously always has included both women and men. Their agency, that is, the power of the visual and material, is as potent if not more so than the power of the word. Literary scholars themselves have become increasingly vocal about the clear bias of their sources, not only as regards the eliding of women’s voices, but specifically in relation to their discernible visual and physical presence. Koltun-Fromm, in his exploration of Jewish identity and authenticity, writes about how text distorts, “when it de/faces women and excludes their visibility.”4 He qualifies this deficiency as a form of excision that fears visual presence.5 Along similar lines, Rachel Adler describes the “dis/membering” of women in biblical and rabbinic texts as a form of “dis/remembering.” In her words, “A dismembering is a mutilation. A dis/remembering is a particular kind of mutilation through language, a de/ facing, a tearing away of the face of the other.”6

Conclusion  275 Jewish Women: Between Conformity and Agency departs from traditional ways to study women’s contribution to shaping Judaism over time in another dimension. Establishing parallels regarding gender dynamics across unrelated geographical and historical contexts is indeed unusual. Despite its seemingly random selection of cases, the present study has brought forth a continued and persistent narrative in which patriarchy and women’s agency interact with each other. But this narrative, while organized chronologically from antiquity through the present, with each chapter presenting a different temporal frame, does not present a progressively evolving condition in which women increasingly build capital and agency in which a gender binary and hierarchy is overcome by egalitarianism. Nor does it reveal a process of religiosity diminished by secularity. The performance of agency and piety, or of agency and compliance—at least through the lens of visually and materially identifiable constructs and depictions of Jewish women—is mostly complementary rather than exclusionary or adversarial. Jewish women’s agency operates from a position of engagement with rules and traditions that intersect with gender. The women I have explored in different cultural and chronological contexts, their human and material traces, indicate purpose and the capability to shape and communicate practice, meaning, and identity. “Doing gender,” to borrow Butler’s term, or “doing religion” to cite Avishai’s, spins the thread that ties the women of my varied historical and geographical contexts. While most easily discernable in texts and materials as they live their lives according to Jewish traditions, piously and in conformity to rules and customs, these women—unlike Mahmood’s—include also individuals and groups that resist or revolt against practices and laws shaped by men. My chronicle thus brings the tangible traces of women and men, of female and male, of femininities and masculinities, and most importantly of gender boundaries—firm and flexible—into dialogue, and debunks the assumption that Jewish women gradually emancipated from a patriarchal structure over time. Based on the assumption that women’s agency neither relies on recent Western knowledge, insights, and achievements, nor on qualities and accomplishments that depend on the development of ever more democratic, secular, and progressive values, I have established, both in each chapter individually and as a loosely related sequence of inquiries together, that Jewish women have always had voices, faces, bodies, and perspectives that have informed culture and identity. Despite the fact that the Bible and its rabbinic interpretations are commonly perceived as the baseline against which to measure the level of “Jewish normativity”— in other words, individuals who have followed the traditions and laws of the sacred scriptures closely should be perceived of as quintessentially Jewish—throughout most of Jewish history, individuals who actually lived according to these rulings have represented only a segment if not a minority of Jewish society. This is a fact commonly agreed upon with regard to the Talmudic period. And while it is assumed that Talmudic law has been increasingly authoritative in modeling traditions and laws of Jewish communities in medieval and modern times—specifically in such contexts as Ashkenaz and at Avignon and in the Comtat Venaissin where Jews lived within their own confined areas—it was not until the establishment of the

276 Conclusion State of Israel, that rabbinic law has overruled other, extra-Jewish legislative bodies, at least in some important aspects that determine the status of Jewish identity. As we have seen, the impact of Jewish rabbinic law on Israeli society, is particularly potent with regard to family law, affecting religious status and gender hierarchy. In other words, in Roman and Byzantine Syro-Palestine, in medieval Ashkenaz, and in papal Avignon and the Comtat, Jews represented a minority, and their laws, specifically as they related to the status of women, did not substantially differ from those of other populations. In contrast, in modern and contemporary Israel, Jews represent a demographic majority, and rabbinic laws, specifically with regard to matrimony and divorce, apply not only to the country’s Orthodox or ultra-Orthodox communities but also to secular Jews, including those who opt against the use of religious ceremonies. Introducing each of my chapters with a quotation that informs my inquiry into Judaism’s traditional gender hierarchy, I marked men’s privilege over women in various domains of private and public life. The text of Babatha’s ketubah, similar in language and content to present-day Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox versions, is both a written source and an original archaeological artifact. It underlines a man’s responsibility to provide clothes for his spouse, or more literally and explicitly, his role in dressing his wife’s body. As much of the rabbinic discussion on women’s bodies—both naked and clothed—indicates, the nuance is not coincidental. From the perspective of the male authors, the desire to control and mark women’s bodies, their social and sexual qualities, is obvious and unambiguous. Yet, as I have shown, by using additional methods of exploration we learn that women did have agency in fashioning their bodies and identities. Beyond complying to their expected presentation as wives and mothers, they were significant cultural actors in a community that was defined by women no less than by men. Women’s social skin—their visual and physical performance and appearance—was one that they ultimately curated themselves, and this was not without engaging with men’s desires and the scriptures’ formulations. Women’s self-fashioning of seductive modesty thus indicates at once conformity to tradition and evidence of agency. The inscription of the Worms miqveh, uncovered in secondary use near the entrance within the synagogue façade, references at once the biblical and rabbinic texts on Temple rituals from the past and purity practices in the Middle Ages, a tradition that has maintained itself up to the present. It establishes the central role that ritual purity has played throughout Jewish history, beginning with the Israelite Temple cult and continuing beyond the destruction of the Herodian sanctuary. As the miqveh and its use shifted from a predominantly male routine to a female ritual, women—their bodies as well as their reproductive qualities and cycles of fertility—were once again central actors in the performance of piety. According to the male voice of the texts, the sequence and procedure of niddah were strictly regulated, indeed, controlled. Rather than suggesting women’s blind compliance to men’s orders, however, women asserted their agency in shaping the changes of a physical performance of piety. The shift from the public domain to the private sphere suggests that Jewish women contributed to some fundamental aspects of female privacy and notions of individualism.

Conclusion  277 The text featured on the cartouche above the entrance of the Cavaillon synagogue alludes at once to the biblical text, to the rebuilt Jerusalem temple, as well as to the house of worship to which it applies, meant to perpetuate the memory of early Israelite and Jewish worship. Since it opens onto the men’s section, here too, women’s inferior status is implied if not outright signaled architecturally. Men reserve the responsibility and thus the privilege to pray and study the holy scriptures, relegating women to an inferior status not only within the community but also with regard to God. Despite the drastic and discriminatory solution of spatial hierarchy we observe in the Avignon and Comtadin synagogues, women contributed to shaping Judaism by participating in a more egalitarian public performance of piety. Their agency emerges clearly in the ritualized recital of the Esther story. Introducing cinematic interpretations of Jewish matrimony in Israel, the text of Shacharit spoken by Meir in the movie Kadosh, which builds on a Mishnaic tradition, sets the stage. The ultra-Orthodox character establishes the unmistakable gender hierarchy, not only within Orthodox and Haredi society, but with clear implications for all Israeli Jews, including secular society. The regular morning prayer, recited by men, expresses gratitude to God for not being born a woman. This privilege extends to various aspects of life and places women, specifically in divorce legislation as enforced in Israel, at a disadvantage in relation to men. Despite the rabbinic court’s persistent control over Jewish matrimony, various individuals, groups, and organizations, primarily among Orthodox women, have been challenging the rulings through activism, outreach, and creative pedagogy. Israeli films have increasingly engaged Israel’s patriarchal structure from a critical perspective, emphasizing how rabbinic law often compromises women’s status. The critical attention they draw to these issues is enhanced when women work as directors or codirectors, determining the agency of women protagonists through their use of the cinematic space and lens. While most films that highlight religious women’s lack agency are directed by men, a growing number of cinematic interpretations of pious women that carry agency are conceived by women directors. In essence, my narrative suggests that in the past Jewish women were central actors in self-fashioning and in defining their social skin, in the physical performance of piety through ritual immersion and worship, and they appeared as protagonists in both domestic and communal spaces. In the present, Jewish women continue to play visible and important roles in shaping religious practice and observance. Women’s performance of agency is indeed apparent throughout the different temporal and geographical contexts I have explored. Women were principal curators of their visual and physical appearance, of their bodies and sexualities, of their place as individuals, within their families and communities. Women designed, above all, their standing as individuals, as principal interlocutors of family and community, and finally of their private and public roles. Beyond the agency of women, we have established the intrinsic agency of things—the painted and sculpted images (flat and in relief, at burial sites and in synagogues), the artifacts (including remains of apparel and jewelry, of synagogue furnishings, crafted and decorated), the built installations and buildings (ritual pools and houses of worship), and finally the films (documentaries, series,

278 Conclusion and fiction cinema). This agency pertains to the visual and material as originally designed by their original creators (builders, artists, architects, and film crews), as processed and translated by its users, consumers, and audiences (individuals, communities, and nations), and finally as interpreted by the critical interlocutors (visitors of sites and museums, audiences in the cinema or at home on the computer screen). Scholars, including me as the author of these pages, and you, the readers of my text, in fact contribute to shaping the agency of people and things, enriching Jewish Women: Between Conformity and Agency with many roles and possibilities of performances interspaced with countless layers of meaning. This narrative about Jewish women—exploring the role of nudity and dress, ritual purity and worship, and marriage and divorce—attempts to integrate various spaces that contribute to the construction of gender and identity: bodily space as a vessel of biological and social identity; ritual space as a locus that defines the boundaries between public and private piety; sacred space where the community performs religious and social hierarchies; cinematic space as an intermediary between viewer and screen, intertwining imagination and reality. Independently and together, these conceptual and actual spaces create visual and material worlds that serve as formidable agents of communication between individual and community, between memory and history, challenging cultural boundaries and social hierarchies that separate women from men—in the past as well as the present and future. Notes 1 Mircea Eliade, Le sacré et le profane (Paris: Gallimard, 1987). 2 Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex (London and New York: Routledge, 2011), 234. 3 Rachel Adler distinguishes between a sexualized, focused vision from a polysemous gaze that takes pleasure in the multidimensional presence of the engendered Other. See Rachel Adler, Engendering Judaism: An Inclusive Theology and Ethics (Philadelphia and Jerusalem: The Jewish Publication Society, 1998), 145; and Ken KoltunFromm, Imagining Jewish Authenticity. Vision and Text in American Jewish Thought (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2015), 158. 4 Koltun-Fromm, Imagining Jewish Authenticity, 151. 5 Koltun-Fromm, Imagining Jewish Authenticity, 151. 6 Adler, Engendering Judaism, 3.

Reference List Adler, Rachel. Engendering Judaism: An Inclusive Theology and Ethics. Philadelphia and Jerusalem: The Jewish Publication Society, 1998. Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex. London and New York: Routledge, 2011. Eliade, Mircea. Le sacré et le profane. Paris: Gallimard, 1987. Koltun-Fromm, Ken. Imagining Jewish Authenticity. Vision and Text in American Jewish Thought. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2015.

Appendix Filmography

Title

Director

Release

Sallah Shabati The Shnei Kuni Lemel (Shnei Kuni Lemel) Kazablan Tel Aviv Stories (Sipurei Tel Aviv) Lovesick on Nana Street (Cholei Ahava be’Shikun Gimel) Kadosh Late Marriage (Hatuna Meucheret) To Take A Wife (Ve’Lakachta Lecha Isha) Colombian Love (Ahava Colombianit) A Touch Away (Mirchak Negiah) Sentenced to Marriage (Mekudeshet) Lev Tahor (Pure heart) Bruriah Fill the Void (Lemale et ha’Halal) Gett: The Trial of Amsalem (Get—Ha'Mishpat Shel Vivian Amsalem) The Wedding Plan (La’avor et ha’Kir) Unchained (Matir Agunot)

Ephraim Kishon Israel Becker

1964 1966

Menahem Golan Ayelet Menahemi and Nirit Yaron Savi Gabizon

1973 1992

Amos Gitai Dover Kosashvili

1999 2001

Ronit Elkabetz and Shlomi Elkabetz Shai Kanot

2004

Ron Ninio

2007

Anat Zuria

2004

Ra’anan Ziv

2007

Avraham Kushnir Rama Burshtein

2008 2013

Ronit Elkabetz and Shlomi Elkabetz Rama Burshtein

2014

Tamar Kay and David Ofek

2019

1994

2004

2016

Index

**Page numbers in italics reference figures. accessories 47–48; crowns 49; epikarsin 58; fibula (brooch or clasp mostly used to fasten items of clothing) 48–49; jewelry 50–51; strophium (breastband) 57–58; wreaths 49–50 actors 194–195 Adam and Eve 26 adornment 64–65 agency 7–10, 62, 274–277; in cinema 227; of film 215; of image and artifact 11–12; impact on miqva’ot 127–128 Al-Mansur, Abu Yusu Yaqub 52 Amoraim (rabbinic scholars of the third to sixth centuries CE) 121 anpili/anpilei (socks) 42 anaxyrides 41 Andernach miqveh 104–105 Antiochus IV Epiphanes 120 Aphrodite, statue 28 apparel: color of 58; rota (rouelle) 153–154; in Syro-Palestine 24–25; see also clothing arbah kehilot (the four communities), Avignon, Carpentras, Cavaillon, and L’Isle-sur-Sorgue 149, 193 architectural styles, of synagogues 159 Area plan of medieval Sondershausen, Germany 110 Ark of the Covenant 156, 175–176 Ark of the Law 158 arks (teboth) 176 arranged marriage 247 Ashkenazi 87–88; brides 256; Kazablan (1973) 222–224; Lovesick on Nana Street (1994) 225–227; miqva’ot/ritual pools 95–96, 114–115, 117–118; ritual immersion 89; Sallah Shabati (1964) 220–223 

Autumn, Hammath Tiberias synagogue 49 Avignon 149; carrières (Jewish Quarters) 149–154; synagogues 148, 159–161, 185–187 avricin 41 baal queri (a man who discharges semen) 121 baal teshuva (secular Jew who becomes observant and thus of a somewhat compromised status) 232 Babatha 1–2; ketubah (marriage contract) 23 Bamberg, cellar miqveh 109–112 Bamberg miqveh plan, c. 1300, Germany 112 Bar Kokhba Revolt 24, 65 bareheaded 44–45 bat mitzvah certificates 189 bathhouses 27, 89–91 bathing rituals 122 beauty 64–65 Beth Alpha synagogue mosaic 35–36, 39 Beth Shearim 28, 30 Biforium of Speyer miqveh, c. 1100, Germany 98 bigdei nidut (special clothes) 123–124 bimah (platform from which Torah is read) 159, 162–163, 167 biological differences 53–62 Birkot ha-Shachar (morning blessings) 189 black apparel 58 bodies, naked and dressed 25–33 bodily flaws 56 body image 66 bonnets 44 Book of Esther 193 boots 42

Index  281 Bourekas genre: Kazablan (1973) 222–224; Sallah Shabati (1964) 220–223 bracelets 51 braided hair 43–44 breastband (strophium) 57 brides, white apparel 256 Bruriah 1–2 Bruriah (2008) 2–3 built pool 89 Capernaum synagogue 177 caps 44 Carpentras 149; carrières (Jewish Quarters) 149–154; synagogues 147, 159, 162–167, 184–186 Carrière of Cavaillon, view from synagogue towards south 151 carrières (Jewish Quarters) 149–154; Avignon 152; Carpentras 153; Cavaillon 151; L’isle-sur-la-Sorgue 157 Cavaillon 149; carrières (Jewish Quarters) 149–154; synagogue 147, 156, 159, 168–175, 184, 277 Cave of Letters 34; garment fragments 60–61; hairnets 45, 59; sandals 42; tunics 35 cellar miqveh 95, 109–110, 113 cellar spring-fed pool (Kellerquellenbad) 89 certificate of accession to the religious majority for Noémie Lunel 191 Chair of Elijah, Cavaillon synagogue 175 chandeliers, Cavaillon synagogue 170 chiton (Greek-style tunic) 37, 40 chlamys 40 chuppah (canopy) 227 Cinderella syndrome 256 cinema 215, 219, 241; Colombian Love (2004) 227–230; Divorce 228–230, 255; Fill the Void (2012) 243–248; gender disparity 243; gender in 220, 241–242; Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem (2014) 243, 248–250, 254; Haredi cinema 235; Kadosh (1999) 213–214, 233–235, 277; Kazablan (1973) 222–224, 227; Late Marriage (2001) 243–245; Lev Tahor (2007) 236–237; Lovesick on Nana Street (1994) 225–227; marriage and divorce 253–257; Operation Cat 228–229; Orthodoxy 230–231; sabra (native-born Israeli) 219; Sallah Shabati (1964) 220–223, 227; Sharona Honey 228–229; The Shnei Kuni Lemel (1966) 230–231; To Take A Wife 250; Tel Aviv Stories

(1992) 228–229; The Wedding Plan (2016) 237–239 “city of gold” (women’s ornament) 50 civil marriage 218 clavi 35 “Closed Temple” panel 30 clothing 33; biological differences 53–62; dress codes 52; order of removal 34; overgarments 35; palla 66; rules for 34–35; sarongs 41; shoes 41–43; social and moral hierarchy 62; trousers 41; tunics 35–37; undergarments 35; see also accessories; apparel; overgarments cold bath (kaltes Bad) 89 colobium (sleeveless or short-sleeved tunic) 36 Cologne miqveh, Germany 100 Cologne’s Jewish Quarter 99–101 Colombian Love (2004) 227–230 Colon, Joseph 52 colored garments 58, 63 Comédie-Française in Paris 196 compliant agency 9–10 Comtadin synagogue 148, 164, 167 Comtat 147, 171, 182 Comtat Venaissin 159 cross-dressing 53, 195 crowns 49 cultural actors 64 depilation 43 Dionysus mosaic: depicting scenes from the life of Dionysus in Roman villa triclinium 32; So-called Mona Lisa of the Galilee 51 direction of prayer 175 dis/membering of women 274 dis/remembering 274 divorce 216–219, 240–241, 253–255; Divorce 228–230, 255; Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem (2014) 248–250, 254; Kadosh (1999) 213–214, 233–235; law and 240–241; Tel Aviv Stories (1992) 228–229; Unchained (2019) 250–252 Divorce 228–230, 255 “doing gender” 275 “doing religion” 10, 275 draping of clothes 57 dress 25–26; see also clothing dress codes 52, 63, 65 dressed bodies 25–33 Duck/Tuck (regional variation of plunge bath) 89

282 Index Dura Europos synagogue 41, 56; Esther 42, 50–51; King David annointed king by Samuel 58–59; “Pharoh’s Daughter” 42; The Purim triumph with Queen Esther 42 duties of husbands 54–55 duties of women 54 dyeing 34 earrings 51 ego libido (forming identification processes) 242 empowerment agency theory 9 epikarsin 58 Eretz Israel 175 Erfurt miqveh 107 ‘ervah 60 escamots (laws of carrières) 149 Esther 2–4; Dura Europos synagogue 42, 50–51; play about 193–197; veils 45 Esther de Carpentras 193 eternal light (ner tamid) 158 Ezrat Nashim (Women’s Court) 179–180 fabrics 63; quality and flow 56–57 family law 276 family matters, Israel 217 Feast of Tabernacles 164 female gaze 242 female nakedness 55–56, 62 female physiognomy 55–56 female religious gaze, Fill the Void (2012) 248 feminist consciousness 5 fibula (brooch or clasp mostly used to fasten items of clothing) 37, 48–49 Fill the Void (2012) 243–248 film see cinema First Jewish Revolt (66–70 CE) 24 First Jewish Temple 155–156 Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 150, 153 France: carrières (Jewish Quarters) 149–154; Jews of the pope 149; Louis XV eighteenth-century cartouche above entrance of Cavaillon synagogue 148; Miqveh, Carpentras, France, fourteenth century, 116; Miqveh Montpellier, France, thirteenth century 116; Plan of Strasbourg’s medieval Jewish Quarter 108; Strasbourg miqveh shaft and pool, thirteenth century 109; Strasbourgh miqveh plan, thirteenth century, France 108; theater 194–195; see also Avignon; Carpentras; Cavaillon; L’Isle-sur-Sorgue

Frauenbad (women’s bath) 89 Friedberg church choir, thirteenth century, Germany 106 Friedberg miqveh 93, 102–103, 117–118; close-up of column capital 106; section and plan 103–104; shaft with arched openings 105 Funk-Schlesinger case 218 Fürth Synagogue 181 Galilean synagogues 177 garment fragments 60–61 gender in cinema 220, 241–242 gender disparity 240, 243 gender duality 5–7 gender fluidity 5–6 gender hierarchy 277 gender norms, shift in 181 gendered apparel 23–24 gendered roles 188 gendered space, worship and 176–191 gender-neutral clothing 54 German synagogue, Venice, 1528 183 Germany: Bamberg miqveh plan, c. 1300 112; Biforium of Speyer miqveh, c. 1100 98; Cologne miqveh 100; Friedberg miqveh 103–106, 117–118; miqva’ot/ritual pools 93–94, 114–115; Plan of Cologne’s medieval Jewish Quarter 99; Sondershausen miqveh 110–111; Speyer miqva’ot 96–98; Weisenau cellar miqveh 117–118; Worms miqveh 102 Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem (2014) 243, 248–250, 254 Glass pendant decorated with a menorah, shofar, lulav, and etrog 48, 48 gold jewelry 47–48 groundwater (ma’ajan) 90 hair 56, 60–61; braided hair 43–44 hairnets 44–45 hairstyles 43–47 halitzah 43 haluk (undergarment) 35 Hammath Tiberias synagogue 28–29, 56–57; palla 41; Personification of Autumn 49; Personification of Summer 46; Virgo 36; Zodiac mosaic featuring Spring 39; Zodiac mosaic featuring Virgo 38 Haredi cinema 235; Lev Tahor (2007) 236–237

Index  283 Hasidei Ashkenaz 113–115, 121; ritual immersion 125 Hasidic men 52 head covers 43–47, 60–61, 65–66 headscarves 45 Hebrew 25 Herodian Temple, Women’s Court 179–180 Herod’s Temple Mount compound, prior to 70 CE destruction 157 hijabs 66 Holy of Holies 175–176 House of Leontis synagogue 40 husbands: divorce 240; duties of 54–55 Huseifa synagogue 40 identity markers 23–24, 33, 52, 274; clothing 53–62 Illuminated manuscript of a HispanoMoresque Haggadah, Spain 113 immersion 123–124; bathing rituals 122; women’s privilege 126–130; see also ritual immersion impurity 122 ‘imrah 35 in illo tempore 273 infertility, Kadosh (1999) 233–235 infula (type of ritual headband) 44 instrumental agency model 9 intermarriage: Kazablan (1973) 222–224; Sallah Shabati (1964) 220–223 Israel 213–214; civil marriage 218; family matters 217; marriage and divorce 215–219; religion-nation nexus 215–217 Israeli identity 214–215, 230 Israeliness 215 Israelites, Tabernacle 155–156 Jerusalem, Roman-period miqveh 91 “Jerusalem of gold” (women's oranment) 50 Jerusalem Temples 176 jewelry 47–51 Jewish feminist criticism 6 Jewish gender 6 Jewish normativity 275 Jewish Quarters see carrières (Jewish Quarters) Jewish ritual baths in Germany from the Middle Ages until 1945 94 Jewish-Israeli identity 216 Jews’ bath (Judenbad) 89 Jews’ dipping pool (Judentunke) 89

Jews of Ashkenaz 87–88 Jews of Avignon 147, 171 Jews of France 88 Jews of Germany 88 Jews of the pope 149 Judaism 4–5 “Judaisms” 5 Judea-Palestine, miqva’ot/ritual pools 117–118 Judenbad (Jews’ bath) 89 Judentunke (Jews’ dipping pool) 89 Kadosh (1999) 213–214, 233–235, 277 kaltes Bad (cold bath) 89 karet (penalty for someone who engages in sexual relations with a niddah) 121 Kazablan (1973) 222–224, 227 kelim (vessel) miqveh 95, 112–113 Kellerquellenbad (cellar spring-fed pool) 89 ketubah 60 ketubah (marriage contract) 23, 276 Khirbet Wadi Hammam synagogue mosaic 42; Samson standing alongside several soldiers 38; shoes 41 kiddushin (Jewish betrothal) 227 King David anointed king by Samuel 58–59 King David playing the harp, synagogue of Gaza 50 King Herod’s temple 176 kippahs (caps or bonnets) 44 kollelim (institutes or full-time advanced study of Talmud and rabbinic literature) 241 Late Marriage (2001) 243–245 Law of Return 215 Leda and the Swan Sarcophagus 30 les quatre saintes (the four holy congregations) 149 Lev Tahor (2007) 236–237 levirate marriage 43 L’Isle-sur-Sorgue 149; Aerial view of 2022 excavations exposing the foundations of the synagogue 160; carrières (Jewish Quarters) 149–154; General plan and location of the Jewish Quarter according to the cadaster 157; synagogues 159–160, 184–185 literacy among women 192 living quarters, Jews of the pope 150 Lou Jo de Haman (The Game of Haman) 193

284 Index Louis XV eighteenth-century cartouche above entrance of Cavaillon synagogue, France 148 Lovesick on Nana Street (1994) 225–227 Lunel, Noémie 189–191 Lunel, Rosalba 189 ma’ajan (groundwater) 90 Maimonides 52 male coercion, miqva’ot/ritual pools 126–130 male gaze 64–65, 242 male nakedness 55–56 marginal place of women 192 marital sex, ritual purity 120 marriage 13, 216–219, 241, 253–255; arranged marriage 247; Colombian Love (2004) 227–230; concept of ownership 240; Fill the Void (2012) 243–248; Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem (2014) 243; Kadosh (1999) 233–235; Kazablan (1973) 222–224, 227; Late Marriage (2001) 243–245; Lev Tahor (2007) 236–237; levirate marriage 43; Lovesick on Nana Street (1994) 225–227; Sallah Shabati (1964) 220–223, 227; The Shnei Kuni Lemel (1966) 230–231; A Touch Away (2007) 231–233; The Wedding Plan (2016) 237–239 marriage contract (ketubah) 23, 276 married women 213 masculinity, Late Marriage (2001) 244–245 matutines (rolls of parchment inscribed with Hebrew prayers) 192 medieval synagogues 159 mehitzoth (partition to separate women from men) 180–181 memory 14, 273 menorah (seven-branched candelabrum) 48, 158 menstruating women (niddah) 90, 120–121, 123–124, 127–129; ritual immersion 127–129; ritual purity 120–126 millet system 259n17 Miniature illuminated manuscript from Ashkenaz 119 miqva’ot/ritual pools 86, 88–91, 113–114, 126–130; Andernach miqveh 104–105; Ashkenazi 95–96, 117–118; Bamberg 111–112; Biforium of Speyer miqveh 98; cellar miqveh 95; Cologne miqveh 100; Cologne’s Jewish Quarter 99–101;

Erfurt miqveh with niche for lamp, view towards northeast, thirteen century 107; Friedberg miqveh 93, 103–106; Jerusalem, Roman-period miqveh 91; Judea-Palestine 117–118; kelim (vessel) miqveh 95; Miniature illuminated manuscript from Ashkenaz 119; Miqveh, Carpentras, France, fourteenth century 116; Miqveh Besalú, Spain, twelfth century 115; Miqveh Montpellier, France, thirteenth century 116; monumental miqveh 95, 97; Nurnberg (Bayern) 111–112; Plan of Cologne’s medieval Jewish Quarter, Germany 99; Plan of Strasbourg’s medieval Jewish Quarter, France 108; public miqveh 118– 119; rainwater 115–116; Sondershausen 109–110; Sondershausen cellar miqveh 111; Sondershausen miqveh plan 110; Speyer miqva’ot, 93, 95–98; Strasbourg miqveh 108–109; Usha, Roman-period miqveh, Israel 92; warm water 127–129; Weisenau cellar miqveh 117–118; Worms miqveh 93, 101–102 Miqveh, Carpentras, France, fourteenth century 116 Miqveh Besalú, Spain, twelfth century 115 Miqveh foundation plague, Worms, Germany 87 Miqveh Montpellier, France, thirteenth century 116 Mizrahi Identity Films 224 Mizrahi Jews: Kazablan (1973) 222–224; Sallah Shabati (1964) 220–223 modesty 26; seductive modesty 62–67; veils 45 monumental miqveh 95, 97, 113; Area plan of medieval Sondershausen, Germany 110 moral hierarchy, clothing and 62 morning blessings 189 “Moses Leading the Migrations from Egypt” 30 Na’aran synagogue 37 naked bodies 25–33 nakedness 55–56, 62; see also nudity Nation-State Bill (Israel) 215–216 neck ornaments 50 necklaces 50 Neo-Bourekas 224–225; Lovesick on Nana Street (1994) 225–227 ner tamid (eternal light) 158

Index  285 New Jew 219 New Jew(ess) 220 New Mizrachi Cinema 224 Newer Jew(ess) 220 niddah (menstruating woman) 90, 120–121, 123–124, 127–129; ritual immersion 127–129; ritual purity 120–126 Nile House mosaic, Three dancing, barebreasted Amazons 40 normative Judaism 67n6 nudity 26–33, 55–56; see also nakedness Nurnberg, (Bayern), miqva’ot/ritual pools 111–112 Operation Cat 228–229 “Oriental” Jew 244 Orthodox Jews 230 Orthodox Judaism 253; marriage and divorce 255–256 Orthodox rabbinical authority 213 Orthodoxy, cinema 230–231; Kadosh (1999) 233–235; A Touch Away (2007) 231–233 overgarments 35, 40–41 ownership in marriage 240 Palestine 13; figural representations 28; synagogues 158; tunics 36–37; weaving and dyeing 34; wedding tropes 256– 257; women’s galleries 177; see also Syro-Palestine palla 66 pallium 40–41 patriarchal social control 64 patriarchy 64–65 patterns on apparel 58, 60–61 performance 8 performativity 8 Personification of Autumn, Hammath Tiberias synagogue 49 Personification of Spring 46 Personification of Summer, Hammath Tiberias synagogue 46 Personification of Winter, Sepphoris synagogue mosaic 47 phallocentrism 242 “Pharoh’s Daughter” 30–31, 42 piety 8, 123 Plan of Cologne’s medieval Jewish Quarter, Germany 99 Plan of Speyer’s medieval Jewish Quarter, Germany 96 Plan of Strasbourg’s medieval Jewish Quarter, France 108

platform from which Torah is read (bimah) 159 plays about Esther 193–197 plunge bath 89 polychrome apparel 65 pool at Masada on the Dead Sea 91 pornographic gaze 274 Portuguese synagogue 182 Post-Bourekas see Neo-Bourekas prayer 178, 192; Eretz Israel 175; supplicatory prayers (tkhines) 180 prayer book (siddur) 189, 190 prayers, prayer book (siddur) 189 premarital sex, A Touch Away (2007) 231–233 proto-Yiddish 86 public miqveh 118–119 public worship 154–155 Purim celebrations 193 Purim festival 195 The Purim triumph with Queen Esther, Dura Europos synagogue 42 purity 90; gender-related changes 120–126; see also ritual purity queer subjects in cinema 220 rabbinic courts: divorce 240–241, 254; Israel 217–218 radid (head covering) 47 rainwater 115–116; miqva’ot/ritual pools 90–91 red apparel 58 religion, “doing religion” 10 Religion of Labor, (dath ha’avodah) 220–223 religion-nation nexus, Israel 215–217 religiosity 10 resistance agency model 9 responsibilities of women 54 restored women’s section of the Worms synagogue seen via the arch that connect with it with the men’s section 101 ritual immersion 90, 114, 125–126; bathing rituals 122; Hasidei Ashkenaz 125; from male to female rite 120–126; miqva’ot/ ritual pools 88–91; see also immersion; miqva’ot/ritual pools ritual pools/miqva’ot 88–91 ritual purity 12–13, 127; marital sex 120; see also miqva’ot/ritual pools roles of women 54

286 Index Rosh Chodesh (beginning of the month) 164 rota (rouelle) 153–154 rules for clothing 34–35 sabra (native-born Israeli) 219 sacred space 13; see also synagogues; temples Sacrifice of Isaac panel 36, 42 sadin (head covering) 47 Sallah Shabati (1964) 220–223, 227 Samson standing alongside several soldiers 36–38 sandals 41–43 sarongs 41 savricin 41 scopophilic instinct (pleasure in looking at another person as an erotic object) 242 screens, Israeliness 215 Second Jewish Revolt (132–135 CE) 24 Second Jewish Temple 156, 158 Second Temple period synagogues 158 seductive modesty 62–67 segmenta (type of armor consisting of metal strips fashioned into circular bands) 36 Sepphoris synagogue mosaic: Personification of Spring 46; Personification of Winter 47 seven-branched candelabra (menoroth) 158, 163 sexual differences 53 sexual transgression 55, 60 sexuality 61–64 sexualized, reductive, and objectifying vision 274 sha’atnez 34 shame, nudity 26 Sharona Honey 228–229 Shema (Jewish prayer that serves as a centerpiece of the morning and evening prayer services) 192 shidduch (marriage match) 231; The Wedding Plan (2016) 237–239 The Shnei Kuni Lemel (1966) 230–231 shoes 41–43 shomer negiah (observant touch) 231 siddur (prayer book) 189, 190 silk 56 skirts 41 So-called Mona Lisa of the Galilee, Dionysus mosaic 51 social hierarchies 154; clothing and, 62

social skin 12, 23–24, 67n2, 276–277; biological differences 53–62; bodies 25–33; clothing see clothing socks 42 Sondershausen, cellar miqveh 109–111 Sondershausen miqveh plan, c. 1300, Germany 110 sotah ritual (ceremony of the adulteress in Numbers) 55, 61 Spain: Illuminated manuscript of a Hispano-Moresque Haggadah, c. 1300 113; Miqveh Besalú, twelfth century 115 spatial hierarchy 176 Speyer miqva’ot 93, 97–99​ Speyer miqveh, section and plan, c. 1110, Germany 97–98 Speyer’s synagogue 95–96 Spring, Sepphoris zodiac 46 Strasbourg Jewish Quarter 107–109 Strasbourg miqveh 108–109​ strophium (breastband) 57–58 sudar (piece of cloth or scarf) 45 sudarin (head covering) 47; see head covers Sukkah (temporary hut built for the weeklong festival of Sukkoth) 164 Summer, Hammath Tiberias synagogue 46 supplicatory prayers (tkhines) 180 synagogues 158; Avignon 148, 159–161, 185–187; Capernaum 177; Carpentras 159, 162–167, 184–186; Cavaillon 159, 168–175, 184, 277; Comtadin 164, 167; Comtat 182; Fürth Synagogue 181; Galilean 177; Gaza 50; gendered space 176–191; L’Isle-sur-Sorgue 159–160, 184–185; male congregants 154–155; medieval synagogues 159; Palestine 158; Portuguese synagogue 182; Sepphoris synagogue mosaic 46–47 Syro-Palestine 24–25, 67n7; head covers 44; jewelry 47–48; sandals 42; see also clothing Tabernacle 154–156, 158, 176 tallit (cloak) 35 Tannaim (rabbinic sages from approximately 20–220 CE) 121–122 tassels 34–35 Tauche (plunge bath) 89 tebah (ark) 162–163, 168, 176 Tel Aviv Stories (1992) 228–229 television 215; A Touch Away (2007) 231–233; Unchained (2019) 250–252

Index  287 Temples 154–155, 179; Herod’s Temple Mount compound, prior to 70 CE destruction 157; in Jerusalem 155; King Herod’s temple 176; Western wall section of Herodian Temple Mount enclosure wall, Jerusalem 157 Théâtre Français 194 Three dancing, bare-breasted Amazons 40 tkhines (supplicatory prayers) 180 To Take A Wife 250 Tomb of the Kings 91 A Touch Away (2007) 231–233 Tragédie de la Reine Esther (Tragedy of Queen Esther) 193–194 trousers 41 tunica manicata (short long-sleeved tunic) 35–36 tunica talaris (ankle-length tunic) 35 tunics 35–37 turbans 44 Two men wearing tunics with clavi 37 tzitzit 34–35 ultra-Orthodox 213, 230; Fill the Void (2012) 245–248; Haredi cinema 236–237 Unchained (2019) 250–252 undergarments 35 urban layout of Jewish enclaves 151–152 Usha, Roman-period miqveh, Israel 92

Wedding of Dionysus with Ariadne 41 The Wedding Plan (2016) 237–239 wedding tropes 224 Palestine 256–257 weddings, in cinema 219, 227, 230–231, 234–239, 244–247, 256 Weisenau cellar miqveh 117–118​ Western wall of Dura Europos synagogue 31 Western wall section of Herodian Temple Mount enclosure wall, Jerusalem 157 white apparel 58; brides 256 Winter, Sepphoris zodiac 47 women actors 194–195 women directors 220 Women’s Court 179–180 women’s galleries 177–178; German synagogue, Venice, 1528 183 women’s movements 6 women’s privilege, miqva’ot/ritual pools 126–130 wooden panels of Cavaillon ark, Cavaillon synagogue 170 Worms, Germany, Miqveh foundation plaque 87 Worms miqveh 86, 93, 101–102, 276 Worms synagogue 101 worship, gendered space and 176–191 wreaths 49–50

veils 44–45 Virgo, Hammath Tiberias synagogue 38

Yadin, Yigael 91 yemei libum (days of whitening) 121 Yom Kippur 156

warm water, miqva’ot/ritual pools 127–129 water used or ritual immersion 90 Water-Drawing Festival (Shimhat beit ha-Sho’evah) 180 weaving 34, 54 wedding ceremonies 188, 195, 231–232

Zav (a man who oozes) 121 zava (a woman who oozes) 121 zodiac mosaic 29; Beit Alpha synagogue 39; featuring Spring, Hammath Tiberias synagogue 39; featuring Virgo 38