From the Battle of Culloden to the Kindergartens of Israel: The Story of a Hanukkah Song
Foreign influences on modern Jewish culture are nothing new to us. We did, after all, spend millennia wandering the Earth. Still, sometimes the path of a piece of music can be extremely unpredictable. This is the story of a Hanukkah song which began as something entirely different, created in another world, before eventually developing into an Israeli children's favorite.
It all began with a war between two rival claimants to the British throne in the mid-18th century. 1746, to be precise.
At that time, the Scottish House of Stuart faced off against the English House of Hanover. Tensions escalated and ultimately culminated in a series of bloody battles. The worst of these was the Battle of Culloden, where Prince William Augustus of the House of Hanover – the Duke of Cumberland and son of King George II – defeated the House of Stuart. On his road to victory, the Duke committed a terrible massacre against his enemies, murdering 450 Scottish captives in cold blood.
Ostensibly, this was just one of many bloody battles throughout world history, but in recent decades these events have gained some additional notoriety thanks to the Outlander series of novels by author Diana Gabaldon, which were later adapted into a successful television series.
Yet the Battle of Culloden holds significance not only as a historical retrospective or as an exciting plot for a fascinating novel. It also, in most unlikely fashion, led to the creation of one of the Israel’s most beloved Hanukkah songs.
Prince William Augustus, the Duke of Cumberland, 1750
This English victory and the way it was achieved led to internal criticism even among the English themselves and caused something of a public relations crisis for the House of Hanover, especially the Duke of Cumberland, who was now being called “The Butcher.”
In the interests of damage control, a series of events were planned, beginning with a large victory march upon the Duke’s return to London. In addition, and as part of a badly-needed rebranding for “The Butcher,” an elaborate musical work was written and performed in his honor in London upon his return in 1747. The piece praised the heroism of the Duke by co-opting the story of another hero from the history books, Judah the Maccabee, with all in attendance being very much aware that the leader of the Maccabean revolt was in this case merely a symbol of their own brave Duke.
Judas Maccabaeus, an Oratorio in Three Parts
Judas Maccabaeusis an oratorio by the German-British composer George Frideric Handel, based on a libretto written by Thomas Morell. The two were among the biggest artists in Britain at the time. The allegory linking the Duke of Cumberland and the great Jewish hero was not merely a matter of later interpretation or an invention of the House of Hanover propaganda office. Indeed, the work’s official dedication left little room for doubt:
To His Royal Highness Prince William, Duke of Cumberland, this faint portraiture of a Truly Wise, Valiant, and Virtuous COMMANDER, as to the Possessor of the like Noble Qualities, is, with most profound Respect and Veneration, inscribed, by His Royal Highness’s Most obedient, and most devoted Servant, The Author
The British audience got the message.
Handel’s oratorio, a record cover for one of the more modern versions
So we’ve established that a great piece of music was once created, which made use of our own Hanukkah hero, Judah the Maccabee, to praise a completely unrelated historical figure. But what does all that have to do with Israeli children’s music?
If you peruse the oratorio in its original, you won’t find anything resembling any particular Hanukkah song.
Well, less than a year after the initial release of Judas Maccabaeus, Handel and Morell created another oratorio dedicated to another famous Jewish general, Joshua. This work, unlike the one dedicated to the victorious Duke, was not particularly successful, but one section, devoted to the figure of Joshua himself, did strike a chord with the audience. Thus, in 1751, four years after the first version of Judas Maccabaeus was put on stage, Handel simply attached the chorus about Joshua to the oratorio about the hero of Hanukkah:
See, the conqu’ring hero comes! Sound the trumpets, beat the drums. Sports prepare, the laurel bring, Songs of thriumph to him sing.
See the godlike youth advance! Breathe the flutes, and lead the dance; Myrtle wreaths, and roses twine, To deck the hero’s brow divine.
This section, often referred to simply as See, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes! continued to be popular with crowds even after the original oratorio Judas Maccabaeus faded, leading many composers to adapt it. Beethoven wrote twelve variations for piano and cello. In 1884, Swiss writer Edmund Louis Budry wrote new words in French for the passage to be sung in chorus. The tune was often played by brass bands at the openings of railroads and railway stations in 19th century Britain. The song was also adopted as part of Sir Henry Wood’s Fantasia on British Sea Songs, performed during the BBC’s annual Last Night of the Proms concert. And there are many more examples of this.
The Conversion of Judah the Maccabee
The song then took quite the scenic route before reaching us here in Israel, first landing across the Atlantic in the United States of America. In the early of the 19th century, decades before Herzl and Zionism, another visionary for a Jewish state was working on his own dream. His name was Mordecai Manuel Noah. In 1825, Noah acquired Grand Island in the Niagara River for a then-astronomical sum of $1,000, naming it “Ararat.”
Later, he conducted an impressive ceremony declaring the foundation of a new home for the Jewish People, during which he wore a purple robe and crowned himself an “Israelite judge,” with Judas Maccabaeus playing in the background. Noah’s initiative was dismissed by leaders of the local Jewish community, and having failed to raise funding for the project or “citizens” for the new venture, he sold the land to a local lumber merchant. Mordecai Manuel Noah’s grand scheme was the inspiration for the novel Isra Isle by Israeli author Nava Semel.
Nava Semel’s Isra Isle, translated by Jessica Cohen
It was only well after this American adventure that the world-famous song eventually reached the Land of Israel. The oratorio was fully translated for the “Land of Israel Oratorio Choir,” conducted by Fordhaus Ben Tzissi, and was performed many times during the early years of the State of Israel.
But the section See, the Conquering Hero Comes (which was actually about Joshua, remember?) was first translated into Hebrew by Aharon Ashman in 1932. The song was then performed at the opening of the first Macabbiah games. The event’s program indeed mentions Neginah – indicating that musicians played a musical piece – but it does not mention what songs were played.
The program for the first Maccabiah games mentions Neginah – indicating that musicians played a musical piece – but it does not mention what songs were played. The National Archives of Physical Education (Wingate)
A little later, in 1936, Levin Kipnis wrote a new version set to the same music. This was a new and original reworking of his own, rather than a direct translation.
One of Israel’s most beloved Hanukkah songs. Image: the album Chag Sameach, one of many holiday song compilations that include Hava Narima (Chag HaNitzachon), the National Library of Israel’s Music Collection. Listen to the song here.
Kipnis’ song was the version that took off here in Israel. It became a huge hit with people of all ages and was performed by greats such as Uzi Benziman, Hanny Nahmias, and Eran Tzur. Kipnis gave it the title Chag HaNitzachon [The Festival of Victory] but it is often known by its first line – Hava Narima [Let Us Lift Up). This song was not originally written for Hanukkah, nor for Judah the Maccabee, but nevertheless, thanks to a minor Hanukkah miracle, it has become one of the songs most identified with both.
A little like all of us, the song is made up of connections that seem to make little sense: A Jewish 2nd century BCE hero and a claimant to the British crown, a 20th century Russian-Jewish lyricist, and a British-German composer from the Baroque era. From this motley gathering came a song which was something new in and of itself, a light unto this nation.
***
While preparing this article I made use of a number of historical resources as well as the work of Eliyahu HaCohen, the scholar of modern Hebrew song.
Rabbi, Lord, Professor: On Rabbi Jonathan Sacks
The archive of one of the most important Jewish thinkers of our time recently arrived at the National Library: the personal files of the former Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, a Jewish leader who was admired around the world, and a close friend of King Charles III. This is the story of a person who would have preferred “man” and “Jew” to any other title on earth.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. Photo courtesy of the Rabbi Sacks Legacy
“The time will come when the nations of the world will recognize that the power of ideas is greater than the idea of power.”
These words were uttered at an event held in Jerusalem in May of 2014, an event celebrating the renewal of the National Library of Israel. The speaker, an honorary doctorate from Hebrew University, was Rabbi Lord Professor Jonathan Sacks, who served as Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth for 22 years – one of the most famous Jews in the world.
If you had got ahold of Jonathan Sacks as a child in the 1950s and told him that he would one day be the bearer of so many prestigious titles, that he would meet the Pope, or that King Charles III himself would mourn his passing (in Hebrew), he would probably have responded with typical British politeness and told you that you must be mistaking him for someone else.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks was born in London, just two months before the State of Israel declared its independence, to Louis and Libby Sachs, proud working-class Orthodox Jews. Louis was born in Poland, and he invested all his energy in becoming part of British society and looking after the welfare of his children. While he wasn’t able to pass down a legacy of Talmudic knowledge, he made sure they took pride in their identity and were given a proper Jewish upbringing, even while attending primarily Christian schools.
Rabbi Sacks once said that “My father would rather lose a friend than compromise a principle and my mother kept all the friends my father lost.” The old dictum, “Be a Jew at home and a man in the street”, typified the prevailing atmosphere in which Jonathan Sacks was raised.
Members of the National Library of Israel’s Archives Department pictured with items from the Rabbi Sacks Archive, London, 2023
Somewhat ironically, it was during his school years at Christ’s College that Sacks was involved for the first time in educational activity related to his Jewish origin: Almost half of the students were Jewish. Together with a few friends, Sacks worked to organize a regular morning study hour devoted to learning Judaism. This was the first time he was able to draw young people to study the sources and foundational texts of their heritage. During this activity, he learned something else: The teachers, who were Christian almost without exception, not only did not oppose this study hour, they showed real respect to their students’ devotion to their own faith. Difference does not necessitate hatred or division – this would be a guiding motto for the duration of Rabbi Sacks’ life.
At 18, he began studying philosophy at Cambridge University. Three years later, in 1969, he earned a 1st Class Honours Degree and was awarded a Rhonda Research Fellowship in Moral Philosophy.
But academic success was not his only important accomplishment in these years. There were other events during this time which were significant in shaping his personal and public future.
One of these was the 1967 Six Day-War, which led to a global wave of Jewish and Zionist awakening. This shift was felt even in the halls of British universities, including Cambridge. Jewish students collected donations for Israel and also began to become increasingly interested in their own Judaism and its practical significance in their lives.
Another major turning point took place in 1968 when Sacks travelled to New York, in what turned out to be far more than a simple bit of tourism. There, in the city containing the largest population of Jews in the world, he encountered Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson – the Lubavitcher Rebbe. The young Sacks came to the meeting as a skeptic, with a list of questions which concerned him at the time. But he left with his head filled with no less important and piercing questions which the Rebbe asked of him: How many Jewish students are there in Cambridge? What are you doing to develop your Judaism in this environment? And most importantly – what are you doing for other Jewish students?
Sacks once recalled to an audience –
“I’d come to ask a few simple questions, and all of a sudden he was challenging me. So I did the English thing. You know, the English can construct sentences like nobody else, you know? They can construct more complex excuses for doing nothing, than anyone else on earth. (laughter)
So I started the sentence, ‘In the situation in which I find myself…’ – and the Rebbe did something which I think was quite unusual for him, he actually stopped me in mid-sentence. He says, ‘Nobody finds themselves in a situation; you put yourself in a situation. And if you put yourself in that situation, you can put yourself in another situation.'”
The man who was then just Jonathan Sacks, a bright Jewish student at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, returned to England to complete his degree. But his view of his role in the world and his studies, had radically changed.
That year, he met his future wife Elaine, as she walked across the campus courtyard with a friend – “I thought, this is the person most unlike me I’ve ever encountered. She radiated joy.” It was love at first sight, for both of them. He needed just three weeks to buy a ring and pop the question in the middle of Oxford Circus. Elaine accompanied him from there on out, including on his travels to distant locations.
And travel he did. It was the beginning of the path of a great teacher who would very quickly become a guide for masses of people around the world, whom Prince Charles, the future King, would later call “a light unto the nations.”
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks with his wife, on their wedding day. Photo courtesy of the Rabbi Sacks Legacy
In the following years, alongside academic achievements like an MA at New College, Oxford (1972), a PhD from the Philosophy and Theology department at King’s College (1981), a visiting professorship at the University of Essex (1989), and a visiting professorship for Theology and Religious Studies at King’s College (1998), he began to operate at the religious level as a teacher and spiritual leader.
He lectured on matters of philosophy and theology at academic institutions around the world, and received rabbinic ordination at Jews’ College and Yeshiva Ezt Chaim an in London (1976). Two years afterward, he began serving as a synagogue Rabbi in Golders Green and then in Marbel Arch.
Where many had failed, or had even failed to make the attempt – Rabbi Sacks succeeded. He was able to bring ancient Jewish ideas and traditions into the 20th century, managing to engage new Jewish audiences, especially amongst younger Jews. He gave new life and exposed people to ideas that were thousands of years old, ideas which were previously often considered irrelevant and detached from modern life.
He wrote, spoke, and gave sermons on many a platform and for a variety of media, events, and institutions, both Jewish and non-Jewish. With elegant, quiet charisma, he presented his religious and philosophical approach, which was founded on a deep and unshakable Jewish faith, yet consisted of ideas – particularly liberal and humanistic ideas – that belonged to philosophers and thinkers of all religions.
He spoke to Jews and of Judaism in a way that no-one had done before.
In 1991, with the retirement of Rabbi Immanuel Jakobovits, he was offered the position of Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth, the top rabbinical position in the United Kingdom. It was a shining opportunity, which included more than a few perks. But he understood the great responsibility involved in the role and wondered whether it was right to take on such a burden. He thus appealed, in a letter which later became very famous, to the man who first set him on the path of leadership – the Lubavitcher Rebbe.
The letter provides an image of a modest man, unexcited by the power derived from his office, but who is well aware of the unique virtues and worldview that he can bring to the table, and who also possesses a fierce desire for change and renewal.
He accepted the role, and completed the transition from unofficial grassroots community leader to his new formal position as the title-holding, premier representative of British Jewry. His first plan of action focused on education – with an emphasis on strengthening Jewish identity and ties to the younger generation, particularly university students.
His influence soon extended beyond the British Isles. He received honorary degrees and titles from many academic and religious institutions around the world, and Jews – both young and young at heart – flocked to his lectures and enthusiastically read his books.
A search of the National Library’s collections results in dozens of books written by Rabbi Sacks, both in English and Hebrew translation. These books, the majority of which deal with timeless, universal questions like the relationship between religion and science, the place of the individual in modern society, tolerance among cultures, dealing with human radicalism, and more, became bestsellers around the world and were read by Jews and non-Jews alike.
In the archive of Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz, which can also be found at the National Library, there is a review of one of Sacks’ books, Crisis and Covenant, in which Leibowitz wrote the following:
“It should be noted that these things were not said to a specifically Jewish audience, but to a general academic audience. Yet the author speaks as a Jew in all of his being, whose heart is given to the problem of Judaism among the Jewish People today, and not to presenting it to the outside world, and it is needless to say – without any purpose of ‘show[ing] the nations and the ministers her beauty’ … The book in general is an important contribution to Jewish thought in our day and we must – and are even commanded – to dress it in Hebrew garb.”
The ability to connect different worlds, the belief in the inclusion and acceptance of the other, is one of the most prominent cornerstones of Rabbi Sacks’ thought. In a brief conversation on any subject in the world, he could quote Rabbi Saadyah Gaon, Blaise Pascal, Abraham, and Philo. He was unafraid of contrary ideas or the people who advocated them. In his speeches, he often referred to Nietzsche as his “favorite atheist”.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks at the National Library of Israel, 2016. Photo: Hanan Cohen
But despite the accusations of ideological rivals who could not contain such a diversity of ideas, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks was not the kind of person who changed his opinions based on whoever he spoke to last. He was the same man when he spoke to the Pope and when he spoke to sixth graders at a Jewish school in Texas. His liberal and humanist views were planted deep in ancient Jewish thought. He was a complete man, straight as an arrow, filled to the brim with knowledge originating from different corners of the globe and with religious and national pride, a pride originating in all the good his nation and faith had to offer the world, without condescending over others.
The tolerance he spoke so much about was not just directed outwards towards other cultures but also and perhaps primarily inwards, towards ourselves.
When he came to speak at the 2014 renewal ceremony at the National Library’ of Israel’s previous abode, he ended his speech (which included quotes from Isaiah, Amos Oz, Sergei Brin, Akhenaton, Rashi, Maimonides, and Plato) in a direct reference to what he considered to be the Library’s most important role:
“…the National Library is a library that can form connections between Jews in this very, very fragmented Jewish world that we have now, where the gap between religious and secular continues to grow. As I began by saying, if there is one thing that even secular Jews believe profoundly, it is that we have a share in this heritage of literature and literacy. That is what makes the Jewish people what it is. That’s what Amos Oz was trying to tell us. That is what that wonderful MK Ruth Calderon, was doing in her maiden speech in the Knesset, when as a woman and as a secular Jew, she gets up and gives a Talmud lesson to the members of Knesset. It was a brilliant lesson, and it was a lovely way of saying, “You know what? This text belongs to all of us.” […] A campaign, a way of extending the National Library so that everyone can plug into it, is a way of opening up the Jewish text and the Jewish commentary to what Torah She’be’al Peh – the Oral Torah – is really supposed to be, the ongoing conversation scored for many voices of Jews in conversation with the terms of their destiny. We like argument. In fact, I don’t think we know any other form of conversation.”
See the full 2014 speech here:
This was not mere rhetoric. Despite his status as a global celebrity, he conducted himself in everyday life with humility and with respect for all people as such. Everyone who worked or met with him in different circumstances said the same thing: When you spoke with Rabbi Sacks, you felt you were the most important person in the world for him at that moment.
Tsur Ehrlich, the skillful translator of most of Rabbi Sacks’ books into Hebrew, told us of a phone call he received one year, on the eve of Yom Kippur. On the other line was none other than Rabbi Sacks himself. He wanted to wish him a gmar chatimah tovah [that he might be inscribed in God’s Book of Life, a traditional Yom Kippur greeting].
“I believe,” Ehrlich added “that he had thousands of calls that day. I was on his list, even though we’d hardly had a chance to work together. He spoke with warmth, fondness, and it didn’t feel like he was doing it just to check a box. Both at conferences or lectures in Israel – whenever I met him, he would immediately identify me and welcome me warmly.”
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks passed away in 2020, at the age of 72. He was eulogized by the Prince of Wales at the time, who is today King Charles III, with the following words:
“Through his writings, sermons, and broadcasts, Rabbi Sacks touched the lives of countless people with his unfailing wisdom, with his profound sanity, and with a moral conviction which, in a confused and confusing world, was all too rare.
He and I were exact contemporaries, born in the year of the foundation of the State of Israel, and over many years I had come to value his counsel immensely. He was a trusted guide, an inspired teacher, and a true and steadfast friend. I shall miss him more than words can say.
[…] In 2013, at the event to mark Rabbi Sacks’ retirement as Chief Rabbi after 22 distinguished years, I said – deliberately misquoting Isaiah – that he was a “light unto the nations”, and said I hoped he would keep that light burning for many years to come. That was only seven years ago, but in the years that he was given to us, how brightly that light burned, how many lives were brightened, how many dark places were illuminated. He was truly ‘or lagoyim‘, a light unto the nations.
[…] Yehi zichro baruch, May his memory be for a blessing.”
The 2024 Sacks Conversation was held at the National Library of Israel on Thursday 21 November, 2024, to commemorate the 4th yahrzeit of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks and mark the dedication of the Rabbi Sacks Archive at the National Library of Israel.
United States Ambassador to Israel, Jack Lew was in conversation with Rachel Sharansky Danziger.You can watch the event below:
So What’s the Plan, Jerusalem?
Countless urban plans have been drawn up for Jerusalem over the years, but the Holy City, and history itself, always seemed to have plans of their own…
A map of land ownership in Jerusalem in 1948, before the establishment of the State of Israel. From the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research (Reference # IL-JIPR-JPL-01-02-0001)
Upon taking office as the first British High Commissioner for Palestine, Sir Herbert Samuel announced that the region would have its own special administration. The unique status which the British granted to Mandatory Palestine was an indication of its importance in their eyes. Known to its Hebrew-speaking Jewish residents as Eretz Yisrael – the Land of Israel – Mandatory Palestine was established as an autonomous administrative unit with its own currency (displaying the names of the land in Arabic, English and Hebrew), and for the first time since the days of King David, Jerusalem was declared its capital.
But the Jerusalem the British encountered in 1917 was far from worthy of such lofty status. Sewage flowed in the streets. Dirt, filth, and disease were everywhere to be found. Roads were in disrepair, there was no electricity, and the First World War had led to serious shortages and even famine.
The first step was to bring order to the system. The High Commissioner announced that a general land survey and registration would soon begin. Steps would be taken to ensure that the new neighborhoods to be built would be constructed according to appropriate plans.
A British Mandate map of the Jerusalem area. From the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research (Reference # IL-JIPR-JPL-01-01-0001)
A Stone-Carved Mountain
No fewer than five comprehensive city plans came across the desk of the Military Governor of Jerusalem over thirty years of British rule, outlining how the city would look in the years to come. These plans navigated the complexities of both preserving the Old City and developing the new city towards the west, while also mapping out new roads, neighborhoods, gardens, and commercial areas.
Of the five plans, the most impactful was that of architect Henry Kendall, which was submitted in 1944. Kendall studied architecture at the University of London and came to Mandatory Palestine in 1936. He was appointed the High Commissioner’s advisor on urban planning, he was the chief architect for the Mandatory public works department, and he was also the city engineer of Jerusalem. His plans for Jerusalem were detailed and differentiated between residential, commercial, industrial, and other uses. Kendall mapped out the network of streets and town squares, planning for six categories of building density and height, depending on proximity to the Old City. His plan was for neighborhoods to be built on mountain ridges, separated by valleys that would remain free of buildings and contain public gardens. He also added industrial zones to the city. Kendall’s plan implemented the customary British practice of preserving the Old City and separating it from the new city. It defined the building materials and architectural style to be used, which aligned with the British perception of Jerusalem. For example, the use of corrugated iron, asbestos, wood, and essentially any material other than stone was prohibited; the architectural style in the new city also featured arches and paid meticulous attention to the skyline.
Kendall’s impact on the city’s appearance and character was the most lasting and significant among those that preceded him. Many of the principles he set continue to affect the city, its residents, and its appearance to this day.
Henry Kendall could have sat in his office for many more years, continuing to plan the city, if history did not have its own plans for Jerusalem – and for Kendall himself. Four years after he submitted his plans for the city, the map of Jerusalem changed drastically.
A map of land ownership in Jerusalem in 1948, prior to the establishment of the State of Israel. From the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research (Reference # IL-JIPR-JPL-01-02-0001)
Jordanian Jerusalem – Israeli Jerusalem
The UN Partition Plan of 1947, which stipulated that Jerusalem would be a demilitarized city under international control, was not welcomed by any of the sides involved in the fierce battle over control of Jerusalem during Israel’s War of Independence. As a result, it was the developments on the battlefield, rather than mapmakers sitting in their offices, that decided what the city would look like. In the armistice agreements, Jerusalem was divided between the Jordanians and the Israelis, and each side rushed to assert sovereignty over its part. How? Through planning, of course.
While the Israeli Jerusalem municipality hired architects to draw up a new urban plan for West Jerusalem, the Jordanians turned to none other than our old friend Henry Kendall.
Kendall’s 1944 plans continued to serve as a guideline for the Jordanians in Jordanian East Jerusalem, and after a fair amount of work that included making adjustments to account for the new geopolitical reality, Kendall submitted an improved plan for Jerusalem: “Jerusalem (Jordan) and Region Planning Proposals”.
Kendall’s plan for Jordanian Jerusalem. From the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research (Reference # IL-JIPR-JPL-01-02-0003)
Kendall envisioned Jordanian Jerusalem as a spacious city, combining residential areas, commercial zones, roads, and open spaces. In practice, however, the Jordanian government’s complicated relationship with the Arab residents of Jerusalem led to a far less developed city. Despite all of his hard work, only a few years after Kendall submitted the plan, history struck yet again, and all of his meticulously prepared blueprints had to be shelved in the archive.
“My City has Changed Her Face”
The Six-Day War brought about a drastic change in the city’s appearance, size, character, and planning principles. For the first time, Israel assumed planning authority over the Old City, without neglecting the new city.
Senior teams of planners and architects began preparing the master plan for (Western) Jerusalem in the early 1960s. Israel (Lulik) Kimhi, a veteran researcher and one of the pillars of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research, describes how, for the umpteenth time in Jerusalem’s history, the city laughed in the faces of those who prepared such intricate plans for her: “The office [=Office of the Master Plan for Jerusalem] began following a detailed work plan and was about to finish its work on the eve of the city’s reunification. However, due to the sudden change in Jerusalem’s situation following the Six-Day War, [Mayor] Teddy Kollek asked the team to continue working, and so we, the members of the master plan team, were tasked with preparing the first plan for a reunified city.”
In the decades that followed the Six-Day War, Jerusalem entered a period of planning and construction unlike any before. Areas that had previously been neglected now received plans and development programs; old neighborhoods saw renovations and expansion; massive new neighborhoods were built and parks were developed, and highways were constructed to connect the newly unified parts of the city.
Plan for the Old City and its surroundings. From the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research (Reference IL-JIPR-JPL-02-03-0005)
In addition to building new neighborhoods within Jerusalem – Ramot, Gilo, Pisgat Ze’ev, and others – a decision was made in the 1980s to expand the broader urban territory by establishing cities and towns around Jerusalem. Thus, Ma’ale Adumim, Efrat, Givat Ze’ev, and other communities were founded, marking the beginning of the era of “Greater Jerusalem,” with the city functioning as a metropolitan area serving a large region of Jewish and Arab communities surrounding it.
How was the eternal city to prepare for a new millennium? With plans, how else? As early as 1985, work began on the ultimate urban plan for Israel’s capital city – the Jerusalem 2000 Master Plan. Lulik described it as follows: “The plan included population and construction forecasts, economic and demographic analysis, preservation zones, transportation systems, new areas for construction, landscape considerations, open spaces, and more. The plan had a comprehensive, systemic vision and was supposed to guide the city’s development… until the year 2020.”
Plan for “Jerusalem 2000”. From the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research (Reference IL-JIPR-JPL-01-03-0002)
But as we have already learned, the city of Jerusalem has a life of its own. Security issues, demographic changes, political processes, various economic pressures and the realities of life itself have reshaped the city’s appearance. To this day, the Jerusalem 2000 plan has not been formally approved by the Israeli Ministry of the Interior, but it still serves as a guiding document for the local planning committee in Jerusalem.
For their part, planning committees and city planners are still attempting to design Jerusalem’s urban landscape, trying to reshape the image of this vibrant and chaotic ancient city. These efforts are likely to continue until the next historical turn of events that will force the planners to shelve their maps and blueprints in the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research – and begin rethinking everything, once again.
The items appearing in this article are preserved in the archive of the Jerusalem Institute for Policy Research and are digitally accessible as part of the Archive Network Israel project, made possible thanks to the collaborative efforts of the archive, the Ministry of Heritage, and the National Library of Israel.
The Guardian Angel of Jerusalem’s Children: Dr. Helena Kagan
How many people can credit themselves with establishing and developing an entire medical field? In the early 20th century, pediatric medicine practically didn’t exist in the Land of Israel. Enter Helena Kagan. With her rare combination of professionalism, hard work, and dedication, she built up the field of children's medicine in the Holy Land from scratch. This is the story Israel’s first pediatrician.
Dr. Helena Kagan. Photograph courtesy of the Kagan family
“If my hands could have achieved it, I would have strewn roses all over the streets of Jerusalem for you.” This sentence was written by a man not to his wife or lover, but to the doctor who saved his six-month-old daughter’s life.
Dr. Helena Kagan, the guardian angel of Jerusalem’s children, was a pioneer in every sense of the word. Almost everything she did was groundbreaking.
She was the first woman to receive a job offer from the medical research institute at the University of Bern. She was also the first woman to obtain a license to practice medicine in the Land of Israel, and the first pediatrician in the country. She established the first daycare center in the Holy Land, the first well-baby clinic, and the first pediatric department in an Israeli hospital.
Dr. Helena Kagan examines a baby in her clinic. Photograph courtesy of the Kagan family.
Despite all these impressive professional achievements, people who met her in person primarily remembered her for her incredible kindness, humility, and caring nature. This serious woman, whose gentle manner concealed a sharp professional mind and a strong sense of determination, saw herself as nothing more than a public servant. She never expected any rewards.
In the case of the six-month-old infant whose father wrote the opening sentence of this article, Dr. Kagan made her way to the family’s home – they couldn’t afford any other doctor – and spent forty consecutive days there monitoring their daughter’s recovery and providing necessary treatment. When the grateful parents sent her a bouquet of flowers, Helena responded with astonishment, remarking, “Buy why?”
Helena Kagan was born in 1889 in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, which was then part of the Russian Empire. When her father’s employers discovered that he was a Jew, they demanded that he convert to Christianity or leave the factory he managed. He left, and the family lived in poverty for years, until he was eventually able to establish an independent business on his own.
Helena’s talents were apparent even early on, but her parents couldn’t afford the costs of her education, so she was forced to stay home. During her childhood she took care to educate herself, without the aid of a teacher, and when she reached high school-age she was eventually accepted to the most prestigious school in Uzbekistan.
Helena Kagan during her childhood in Tashkent. Photograph courtesy of the Kagan family.
When her family’s financial situation improved, Helena’s parents sent her and her brother Noah to study in Western Europe. It was only when they arrived in Lausanne, Switzerland that Helena discovered she was too young to be admitted to the music studies program she had dreamed of. Not one to sit idly by, she instead enrolled as an external student (again, due to her young age) in pre-med studies. And that was that. Almost immediately, she fell in love with the profession and discovered she excelled at it.
In 1910, when she was only 21 years old, she completed her medical studies, specializing in pediatrics. That’s when she received a job offer from the faculty of medicine’s own research institute – an offer that had never been extended to any woman before, not to mention a Jewish woman.
She returned home to visit her parents, having not seen them for several years, to tell them about the coveted position she had secured. Unfortunately, she found her father on his deathbed, where he made one final request: Before starting such a job, she should travel to the Land of Israel, just for a visit. It wasn’t long before her father passed away. Helena and her mother decided not only to visit the country but to make it their permanent home. Their ship arrived in the port of Jaffa just a few short months before the start of World War I.
When they eventually arrived in Jerusalem, Helena was in for a shock. First, she was astounded by the terrible sanitary and health conditions in the city.
“The medical situation in Jerusalem in 1914 was shockingly primitive, reminiscent of an era centuries before. Ignorance and superstition ran rampant in the city, in addition to severe poverty. The sanitary conditions were dismal, with municipal services such as garbage collection available only on main roads and in a few residential neighborhoods. Public restrooms did not exist at all.”
She then soon discovered that she couldn’t practice medicine at all, at least not officially. The Ottoman government wasn’t exactly a model of progressive thought or practice, and while women could be admitted to medical studies in Europe, the Ottomans found the idea of a female doctor unthinkable.
As you can already imagine, a minor detail like lacking an official license was not going to stop Dr. Helena Kagan from doing what she believed was right.
Dr. Kagan treating a patient. She believed an entire family’s well-being needed to be taken into account to treat a child. Photograph courtesy of the Kagan family
She opened a clinic in the small house she had bought and waited for patients to arrive. But they didn’t show up. The traditionally-minded residents of Jerusalem – Jews and Arabs alike – didn’t understand why this young woman thought she could heal them. “Doctors” who had never been trained in Western medicine mocked the laboratory she set up next to the clinic: What kind of doctor was she if she needed to take her patients’ blood to diagnose diseases?
As it turned out, one particular Haredi family played a critical role in helping Kagan overcome this general lack of faith in her abilities. That family’s children later joined the ranks of one of the most extreme Ultra-Orthodox factions in Jerusalem – the Neturei Karta sect.
The Blau family’s six-year-old son Amram was very sick. None of the doctors they consulted or remedies they tried helped. In desperation, the parents turned to their last resort – the strange young woman from Europe. Kagan quickly diagnosed Amram’s illness – lobar pneumonia – and with her dedicated treatment, he recovered and grew up to become one of the leaders of the Neturei Karta movement. From that moment on, Kagan became the revered doctor of the children of Jerusalem’s Haredi community. When she later became ill herself, hundreds of families prayed for her recovery.
In addition to working in the private clinic, she took a job at the municipal hospital. Initially, she was hired as a staff nurse, and afterwards began training nurse apprentices. In the absence of running water, a laboratory, or even a separate bath for patients, she taught the young women, both Jewish and Arab, how to care for patients at the most basic level – for example by disinfecting syringes or washing their own hands. She did all of this without speaking Hebrew or Arabic, relying heavily on hand gestures and pantomime.
Separate medical care for children was not practiced in Jerusalem before Dr. Helena Kagan arrived on the scene. Photograph courtesy of the Kagan family.
When World War I broke out, conditions in the hospital deteriorated. A large proportion of the doctors were recruited into the Ottoman army, epidemics broke out, and the hospital director himself died of typhus. Kagan, who by now had proven her professional abilities beyond expectations, took over the management of the hospital until a replacement could arrive from Turkey. When a medical delegation came to review the hospital’s operations, its members could not ignore the woman who was running the institution so efficiently and with such authority – Dr. Helena Kagan finally received the coveted license to practice medicine.
She was the first woman to receive such a license from the Ottoman authorities in the Holy Land.
When the replacement from Turkey eventually arrived, Dr. Kaga lost her position as the director of the municipal hospital. However, by then she was already a well-known figure in Jerusalem, and her medical practice became more organized and public. She joined various Zionist women’s organizations, and in 1917, she took over the well-equipped clinic of Dr. Albert Ticho (who had been recruited into the Ottoman army), transforming it into the first Jewish hospital in the Land of Israel. In 1936, she established the pediatric department at Bikur Cholim Hospital, which was later named in her honor.
In addition to her professional work, which didn’t take up all her time, she looked after the city’s children in other ways as well. She believed that “there is no treatment for a child without treating the family,” and thus she established a daycare center for children whose fathers had been called up into the army and whose mothers needed to work. She also set up an orphanage in the Sha’arei Chesed neighborhood and later worked at an Arab children’s home in the Old City.
“Dr. Helena Kagan – the Children’s Guardian Angel”, from Haaretz, July 21, 1967. From the National Library of Israel’s Historical Jewish Press Collection
But Dr. Kagan’s crowning achievement was the establishment the city’s Tipat Halav (“drop of milk”) well-baby clinics. This institution, well-known in Israel today, started out of the tiny courtyard of her Jerusalem home. She discovered that a major problem affecting the health of Jerusalem’s infants was malnutrition, so she purchased a cow to provide milk for the babies under her care.
She later partnered up with Henrietta Szold and the Histadrut Nashim Ivriot (Hebrew Women’s Organization) to establish the first “Mother and Child Station” in the Old City. She and her team needed to attract women for whom the whole concept of this kind of aid seemed unnecessary and foreign (“Why would I need someone to teach me how to take care of my baby? Why should a baby who seems healthy need to visit a clinic?”). They decided to use one of the most sought-after products of the time – milk – to entice these impoverished mothers. The bottles, containing pasteurized milk (a rare commodity in the country at the time), were distributed in two ways. One was at the station itself, where mothers were encouraged to stay a little longer, weigh their babies, receive information on disease prevention, and discuss their challenges. The other was through a citywide distribution effort on the back of a donkey carrying a sign that read Tipat Halav – a drop of milk – which is the name of this network of well-baby clinics to this day.
Dr. Helena Kagan cared for all the children of Jerusalem – Arabs and Jews, religious and secular, wealthy and poor. In the Helena Kagan Collection at the National Library of Israel and in other collections belonging to public figures of that era, you can find correspondence reflecting her efforts to help children in any way possible – from purchasing a violin for a young, orphaned musician to organizing donations to purchase a sewing machine for a poor mother so she could support her children.
She pounded the pavement, going from house to house all over the city, braving Jerusalem’s unforgiving weather, during times of war and peace, growing older but never losing her vigor and passion for providing the city’s children with the opportunity to grow up healthy and well.
She received recognition for her efforts. In the 1930s, she was given a place of honor on the board of directors of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. In 1958, she was awarded the title “Honorary Citizen of Jerusalem,” becoming the first woman to receive it. In 1975, she was awarded the prestigious Israel Prize.
In recent years, her story was made accessible to children by Israeli author Dorit Gani in her book Helena Kagan, which is part of the Hebrew series “The Israelis – A Historical Women’s Series” by Zeltner Publishing.
Though her achievements and efforts in the field of medicine were impressive by any standard, Helena Kagan was more than a doctor.
In 1936, she met the talented violinist Emil Hauser, with whom she could finally share her first passion from her days in Tashkent, long before she entered the world of medicine – music. They fell in love, got married, and built a home together, working tirelessly to bring gifted Jewish musicians from Europe to the Land of Israel, and continuing to support them even after their immigration.
Helena Kagan’s story is not only the story of a woman shattering glass ceilings and enjoying a great deal of success in her chosen profession, but also the story of a person who turned everything she was involved with, including her mere “hobbies”, into a dedicated mission. That was her way of improving the world around her and improving the lives of the people who lived in it.
She and Emil had no biological children, but thanks to her decades of work, countless children owed their lives, development, and health to Dr. Helena Kagan.
