A choice I made long ago

Purim, which begins tonight, is a holiday focused in large part on a choice, a decision by Esther to embrace her Judaism and her people and to ask her husband, King Achashverosh of Persia, to save her people from extermination at the hand of Haman.

Today's editorial pages have two very different stories dealing with choices.

Following in the footsteps of his recent editorials on Jewish life in Iran, Roger Cohen once again boldly bucks Middle East policy orthodoxy on the pages of the New York Times, addressing Hezbollah, Hamas, and the British "reconsideration" of its position on the former. Cohen urges the U.S. to:

look at them again and adopt the new British view that contact can encourage Hezbollah “to move away from violence and play a constructive, democratic and peaceful role.”

I'm sympathetic. But, as they say, good luck with that one.

Cohen continues by turning to the choice we face - or lack the political will to face - in Iran, modern-day Persia:

The British step is a breakthrough. By contrast, Clinton’s invitation to Iran is of little significance.

There are two schools within the Obama administration on Iran: the incremental and the bold. The former favors little steps like inviting Iran to help with Afghanistan; the latter realizes that nothing will shift until Obama convinces Tehran that he’s changing strategy rather than tactics.

That requires Obama to tell Iran, as a start, that he does not seek regime change and recognizes the country’s critical role as a regional power. Carrots and sticks — the current approach — will lead to the same dead end as Hamas and Hezbollah denial.

Cohen refuses to toe the line on orthodoxy toward Iran, Hamas and Hezbollah. He isn't shying away after the recent attacks on him, now is he?

Meanwhile, The Jerusalem Post opinion page has a very different perspective on choices in this Purim post.

The Megila - and life itself - are all about making choices, for the consequences will affect not only us personally, but the nation of Israel as a whole.

SHORTLY AFTER our son Ari, a staff-sergeant in the IDF, fell in battle against terrorists in Nablus, my wife and I were visited by a woman whom we had never met. For several minutes, she was crying so hysterically that she could not speak. At first, we thought she had heard about Ari and had come to pay her condolences - as did many strangers - and was simply overcome by emotion. But we were wrong; her tears were about more than just Ari.

When she finally composed herself, she told us the following story: "My husband and I were both born in Israel," she said, "and we were blessed with two children, a boy and a girl. When our son reached the age of 16, we decided that we could not face the prospect of him being drafted into the army, and risk being injured - or worse. And so, after much soul-searching - and against my son's own wishes - we decided to move to California.

"On our son's 18th birthday - when he would have been inducted into the IDF - we bought him a car. Just a few days after his 19th birthday, he was killed in a car crash. I came here to tell you what a horrible choice I made. If it was indeed my son's destiny to die young, how much better it would have been for him to fall in defense of Israel and the people of Israel, rather than as just another traffic statistic."

Purim endures - some say it will continue even after all the other Jewish holidays have been cancelled by the final Redemption - because it forces us to think about where we cast our lot in life.

Choose wisely, for you don't always get a second chance.

It's hard to not be taken in by this, isn't it? Losing a child is a tragedy.

But, unfortunately, the anecdote undermines the entire point of the article and the message of Purim, confusing chance and fate with choice. Destiny? Really? If we are governed by destiny and fate, then why choose anything at all?

Now I am aware that there is significant debate about this point in Jewish thinking. The argument, as I understand it, is that while your "destiny" - in the limited sense of whether you will live or die - is already known, because an all-knowing God must know if you are to live or die, how you reach that point is up to you. Each year during the High Holy Days we supposedly seal our fate for the upcoming year, yet our words and deeds can change "the severity of the decree." This has always been wholly unfulfilling to me, both logically and theologically. Distinguishing between when a life will begin and end and what will happen in that life is a distinction without a difference, an abstraction that has no practical relevance, pointless hairsplitting. All-knowing means all-knowing, and so fate is either entirely known, entirely unknown or - one more option - entirely irrelevant. And knowing all - what will happen to everyone - makes creation irrelevant, because none of it really matters, then. 

One of our basic, fundamental teachings as Jews is that, as human beings, we have free will. Through that free will, we have the opportunity to perfect creation. But through it all, we control our destiny. Choices - good ones, bad ones, choices from which we cannot determine the outcome or propriety or justice - are made, and we must live with them and die with them. That's life. For better or worse, we choose. 

Thus the story of the grieving mother begs several questions. If it had not been her son's "destiny" to die young, would leaving Israel for California in order to avoid serving in the IDF have been a better choice? If fate is knowable, can choice be dictated by knowledge of fate? Should it be? And is it choice any longer? What would she have said had she had the opportunity to move her family to America but failed to do so and her son had been killed in the action in Gaza? Would she be burdened for eternity with the guilt of not making the choice to move to somewhere where her child would not face the risks of war or, more explicitly, would she have been able to live with herself having made the choice to let her son join the IDF and face death?

Also, would the mother have packed up her family and moved to California in order to avoid her son's service in the IDF if she truly believed in a destiny independent of choice? If her son was destined to die young or live a long life, her choice would not have mattered, she could not have changed that fate. Why, then, choose to avoid military service? She made a choice to take her child out of harm's way so that she could give him a greater chance at a long, productive life. But, as she unfortunately learned, there are no guarantees in life, regardless of choices made. Presumably she understood this at the time, and made her choice accordingly.

The mother may have indeed made a horrible choice, or perhaps not. Did Israel's policies warrant the sacrifice? What are the values that inform that choice? We each have to grapple with decisions, and depending on one's perspective on Israel's foreign policy, the occupied territories, the humanitarian claims of a group of people, the existential risks faced by Israel, and the way Israel's current approach to the Palestinians either deepens the chasm or preserves Israel's safety, her choice can be viewed either favorably or unfavorably. As Roger Cohen's editorials and the reactions to them have shown, opinions on these matters, and the passions surrounding them, vary greatly. I have my own balancing test, and know where I come out, or at least where I think I do, not being faced with making that same decision. But as for that mother's choice, it's not for me to judge.

Nevertheless, for choices to matter, the factors that influence those choices - the values that you apply when making decisions - are, and must be, independent of fate. Knowing the outcome isn't making a choice, it's hindsight.

Not quite on point, but, excuse me. What does God need with a starship?



Have a safe and happy Purim.

UPDATE, 3/10/09: Glenn Greenwald has a post from yesterday about Roger Cohen, Chas Freeman, their break from orthodoxy on U.S. policy toward Israel, and the reactions on both sides of the spectrum. Well worth the read.